LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  OF 
THE    FAMILY  OF   REV.   DR.  GEORGE   MOOAR 

Class 


EBITQl'S  COPY. 


PLEASE    NOTICE. 


THURID 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS 


BY  G.  E.  O. 


BOSTON 
LEE    AND   SHEPARD,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK 

LEE,    SHEPARD,   AND   DILLINGHAM 
1874 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

LEE  AND  SHEPARD, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

PRINTED  BY  H.    0.   HOUGHTON   AND   COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


THURID 1 

CHARITY '     .  35 

GOODMAN  JOHN  .     79 


123080 


THURID. 


THURID. 


PART   FIRST. 

FROM  Hoffdabrekka's  crags,  the   gray  mists 

drifted 

Before  the  breath  of  new  awakening  day  ; 
From  shore  and  sea,  the  night  cloud  slowly 

lifted, 
And  early  sunlight  rippled  on  the  bay. 

'  Neath  yon  bold  cliff,  rests  Headbrink's  fruit 
ful  valley, 
Its    verdant     meadows     bordered    by    the 

strand ; 

A  lovely  spot,  where  south-winds  love  to  dally 
With  yielding  flowers  that  bloom  on  every 
hand. 


4  THURID. 

Beside  the  shore,  in  sunshine  basks  the  village, 
A  home  for  those  who  plough  the  northern 

seas, 

A  resting  place,  where,  tired  of  gale  and  pillage, 
The   storm-tossed  Viking  courts  unwonted 
ease. 

With  merry  shout  and  song  the  echoes  wak 
ing, 

From  far  and  near,  beclad  in  garments  gay, 
Both  old  and  young  their  way  are  hither  tak 
ing. 
To  join  in  honoring  Headbrink's  gala  day. 

The  sports  begin  and  all  is  noise  and  motion, 
The  glad  sun  smiles  upon  the  jocund  scene, 

And   seems   to   pause,   ere   gilding  wide   the 

ocean, 
To  cheer  the  dancers  on  the  village  green. 

With  games  of  strength  and  skill,  the  day  ad 
vances, 

Here  wander  lovers  silent  on  the  strand  ; 
Some,  songs  intone  filled  with  weird  northern 

fancies, 
Or  tell  strange  stories  of  some  distant  land. 


THURID.  O 

Never  I  ween  did  joyous  crowd  asse'mble 
Such  wealth  of  fresh  and  merry  fair  faced 

girls, 
Who  view  delighted   the   rough   sports,    nor 

tremble 
At  rude  encounters  of  contending  churls. 

The  fairest  far  among  these  fairest  faces, 
A  heavenly  face,  embodied  from  a  dream, 

Her  form  divine,  enshrined  in  woman's  graces, 
Meet   subject   for   the    proudest    minstrel's 
theme, 

Resting  apart,  within  a  coppice  shady, 

Reclines    young    Thurid,    loveliest    of    the 

throng, 
Joy   of    her   lord,    good    Thorodd's   winsome 

lady, 

Bleak  Froda's  pride,  the  queen  of  many  a 
song !  — 

With  weary,  absent  air,  sits  Thurid  dreaming, 
Her  fair  hair,  loosened,  waving  in  the  wind, 

And  careless  gazes  at  the  sports,  as  seeming 
No  pleasure  in  the  noisy  mirth  to  find. 


6  THURID. 

Within  her  heart,  lurks  deep  some  secret  sor 
row, 
Some   untold    grief,   that   time    can    ne'er 

erase  ! 

She  hates  to-day,  yet  longs  not  for  the  mor 
row, 
And  helpless  sadness  shadows  o'er  her  face. 

She  longs  to  roam  o'er  Froda's  broad  wastes 

lonely, 
And    leave    the    jarring    laughter   of    the 

crowd, 
To  nurse  her  grief,  where  moaning  wild  winds 

only 

Discourse   of  woe,  in  whispers   hoarse  and 
loud. 

Still  grows  the   mirth,  its  merry  round   un 
broken, 
The   Muse   herself   seems   mistress   of   the 

dance ; 
And    tender    thoughts    in    loving    eyes    are 

spoken, 

The   heart's    pent    secrets    proffered    in   a 
glance. 


THURID.  7 

Wrapped    in    the    dance's    tangled,    circling 

mazes, 
Or   drinking   wonders   from    some    Scaldic 

song, 
None  heed  th'  approach  of  one,  who  anxious 

gazes 

On  each  fair  face   that  meets  him   in   the 
throng. 

Haughty  his  air  and  confident  his  bearing, 
His  form  instinct  with  strength  and  manly 

grace, 

His  gray  eyes  speak  of  cool  resolve  and  dar 
ing; 

Foreign  his  garb,   and  sun-browned  is  his 
face. 

Anon,  above  the  din  of  revel  sounding, 

A  growing  murmur  rises  from  the  crowd, 
And  leaving  sports,  the  throng  press  on,  sur 
rounding 

The  stranger's  form,  and  cheer  him  long  and 
loud. 

With   gracious   mien,  receives   he  each    rude 
greeting, 


8  THURID. 

For  few  such  glad  and  loud  acclaim  had 

won, 

And  proudly  hears  each  mouth  the  shout  re 
peating, 

"  Long    life    to    Biorn,    Asbrand's    gallant 


And  thus  afar,  in  shady  copse  reclining, 

Doth  Thurid,  startled,  hear  the  welcoming 

cry, 

And  shrinks,  as  if  the  cruel  truth  divining  ; 
And  pales  and  trembles,  though  she  knows 
not  why. 

With  throbbing  heart  and  quickened  breath. 

up  starting, 
She  notes  the  sound  of  footsteps   drawing 

near, 

And  hears  a  voice,  a  deeper  dread  imparting, 
A  voice  that  erst  came  sweetly  to  her  ear. 

In    vain   she  strives   to  lull   her  heart's  wild 

beating, 

To   still   her   anguish  with    close    clenched 
palms, 


THURID. 

And  calmly  tries  to  wait  the  dreaded  meeting  ; 
Too  late !  for  Biorn  clasps  her  in  his  arms. 

Entranced  they  stand,  their  souls  with  passion 

teeming, 
The  heart's  deep  longing  blazoned  on  each 

face, 

From  hungry  eyes,  a  mutual  love  is  gleaming, 
And  each  lives  ages  in  that  short  embrace. 

A    moment,   and    her    pride    and    conscience 

wielded 
Their  conquering  might,  and  Thurid  feels 

the  sway ; 

Recalls  her  will,  and,  blushing  to  have  yielded, 
With    stricken   heart,    from  Biorn   breaks 
away. 

And,   then,  though    every  word  her  heart  is 

rending, 

And  seems  a  dagger  to  her  tortured  breast, 
In  tones    where  love  and  blank  despair  are 

blending, 

With   downcast   eyes,  she   Biorn   thus  ad 
dressed  :  — 


10  THURID. 

44  The  hour  has  come ;  the  hour  replete  with 
sorrow, 

This  luckless  hour,  foreseen  since  long  ago  ! 
Ah  !  would  that  I  an  icy  soul  might  borrow, 

To  tell,  impassive,  my  dull  tale  of  woe ! 

tk  My  throbbing  heart,  love's  funeral  knell  is 

tolling, 
Flown  from  my  breast  to  fair-haired  Frey 

above. 

Ah  !  why  did  life  with  tasteless  joys  cajoling, 
Forsake  not  Thurid,  ere  she  learned  to  love  ! 

"  'Twas  Midgard's  work,  some  devil's  charm 

was  burning, 

When  Biorn  trusting  left  my  hapless  side  ! 
Some    cruel   god,  'gainst   me   his  wrath   was 

turning 

And  strangled  Truth,  to  make  me  Thorodd's 
bride ! 

*•  Aye  !  start  not  Biorn,  every  word  is  wound 
ing 
The  breast  of  Thurid,  deeper  than  thine  own, 


THURID.  11 

Then  calm  thy  soul,  and  curb  thy  blood's  mad 

bounding  ! 
My  hand  is  his  ;  my  heart  is  thine  alone  ! 

"  Slow  dragged  the  hours,  when  Biorn  sadly 

left  me, 

But  gladly  dwelt  I  on  his  quick  return, 
When  came  the  words  that  of  all  hope  bereft 

me, 
And  bade  me  then  my  broken  heart  inurn. 

"  They    said,    'gainst    odds,    thou'dst    fallen, 

bravely  fighting, 

And  died  the  foremost  in  th'  unequal  fray  ! 
I  heard  their  tale,  my  very  life-blood  blighting, 
And  called  on  Death  to  shroud  my  willing 
clay. 

"  But  grim-faced    Hela,    all   my  prayers  un 
heeding, 

No  welcome  becked  me  with  her  icy  hand. 
My  murky  star,  not  e'en  that  boon  conceding, 

Refused  me  respite  in  that  unknown  land. 

"  Month  dragged  on  month,  my  broken  heart 
benumbing, 


12  THURID. 

And   maddened   grief   to  still   despair  had 

grown. 
'Twas  then  my  soul  seemed  soothed  by  Tho- 

rodd's  coming, 
Who  silent  sat,  or  spoke  of  thee  alone. 

"  His    time-worn    face,    th'   unwonted    color 

mounting, 
He'd   speak   thy   praises,    tell   of    combats 

won ; 

And  long  would  sit,  some   gallant   deed  re 
counting, 

And  mourned  thy  loss,  as  though  thou  wert 
his  son. 

"  A  year  passed  on,  and  Autumn  days  were 

waning, 

Bare  waved  the  branches  of  the  tree-tops  old, 
The  clouds  hung  low  ;  the  chill  winds  moaned 

complaining, 

And  dead  leaves  whispered  of  the  coming 
cold. 

"  Then  Thorodd  seated  by  the  warm  fire  bask 
ing^ 


THURID.  13 

In  the  bleak  twilight  asked  me  for  my  hand. 
4  Thy  heart  is  dead,'  he  said.  '  and  past  the 
asking, 

Then  grant  the  first,  which  is  at  thy  com 
mand. 

44  4 1  ask  a  boon,  all  powerless  of  returning, 
To  her  who  hears  me,  aught  save  age  and 

pain, 

A  hearth  whereon  no  cheerful  fire  is  burning, 
And  barren  halls  where  joy  can  ne'er  re 
main. 

" 4  Of  my  own  heart,  I  speak  not  in  my  plead 
ing* 
'Twere  naught  to  thee,   to   know  it  were 

thine  own ; 

I  only  say,  my  life,  my  soul  is  needing 
But  Thurid's  self ;  I  ask  for  that  alone.' 

44  'Gainst   what  he  begged,    my  inmost   soul 
contended, 

And  vainly  sought  I  anger  to  essay, 
My  heavy  brain  no  fair  excuse  extended, 

And  blinded  Duty  pointed  out  the  way ! 


14  THURID. 

"  On    Thorodd's    care    and   kindness   uncom 
plaining, 
And    love   for  thee,   my  grateful   thoughts 

were  bent, 

For  that  alone,  a  cheerful  presence  feigning, 
With  heavy  heart,  I  gave  a  loth  consent. 

"  'Twere  wanton  pain,  to  rack   thy  heart  in 

dwelling 

On  that  cursed  time,  which  made  me  Tho 
rodd's  wife, 

My  very  tongue  shrinks  palsied  from  the  tell 
ing  ! 
Oh  !  darkest  day  in  Thurid's  darksome  life ! 

"  One  boisterous  night,  when  winds  blew  shrill 

and  dreary, 
And  owls,  storm-blinded,  hooted  from  the 

walls, 
Two   strangers   came,  all   travel-stained   and 

weary, 
To  ask  for  shelter  in  dark  Froda's  halls. 

"  And  when  about  the  blazing  back-log  seated, 
They   said   they   came   from   wave-washed 
Jomsburg  fair, 


THURID.  15 

Wild    stories   told,   and    once   thy   name   re 
peated, 
And  called  thee  leader  of  the  Vikings  there. 

44  4  Then  Biorn  lives ! '  I  cried,  in  haste  up 
starting, 
But  straightway  swooning  on  the  cold  floor 

fell, 

Yet  faintly  heard,  while  sense  was  yet  depart 
ing* 
4  The  Viking  Biorn  is  alive  and  well.' 

44  For  weeks  unconscious,  on  a  sick-bed  lying, 
Those  dark  words  tinged  each  fever  painted 

dream, 

How  happy  to  have  gained  repose  in  dying, 
And   drunk   oblivion   from   Death's   sullen 
stream. 

44  But  life's  curst  fire,  within  me  feebly  burn 
ing, 

Waxed  slowly  stronger,  growing  on  despair : 
And  then  the  thought  of  thee,  some  day  re 
turning, 

Oppressed    my   soul   and    left    its    burden 
there  ! 


16  THURID. 

"  Since  then  no  joy  or  cheerful  thought  has 

blended 
With   th'   unstilled  anguish  of   my  aching 

heart, 

My  task  is  done  ;  my  weary  tale  is  ended, 
And  cruel  Fate  decrees  that  we  must  part !  " 

All  dazed  at  what  he  hears,  is  Biorn  standing ; 
Nor  heeds,  at  once,  that  Thurid's  plaint  is 

o'er. 

And  wonders,  when  his  faltering  speech  com 
manding, 
He  hears  his  voice,  in  tones  unheard  before ! 

"  Thurid,"   he   said,    "  thy  damned   tale   has 

chilled  me  ; 
Thou'st  forced  the  wonted  life  blood  from 

my  heart, 
Far  kinder  had  it  been,  if  thou  hadst  killed 

me, 

Or  hidden  from  me,  what  thou  sayst  thou 
art! 

"  I  will  not  wound  thee  now  with  vain  re 
proaches, 


THURID.  17 

A  sinewy  soul  exists  not  in  the  past, 
But  lives  on  what 's  to  come,  and  ne'er  en 
croaches 

On  Fate's  dread  game,  to  mourn  the  die 
that 's  cast. 

"  Not  idle  tears,  but  brave,  unflinching  action, 
Make  reparation  for  an  evil  done  ; 

Then  rouse  thyself,  and  prove  thy  proud  ex 
traction 
From  princely  blood,  and  victory  is  won. 

u  When,  long  ago,  my  heart  and  troth  were 

deeded 
In  prized  exchange   for  word  and  love  of 

thine, 
No    foolish    form    or    meddling    priest    was 

needed 
To  bind  our  souls,  or  make  thy  being  mine  ! 

"  Our  love  itself  was  warrant  for  our  lovino- ! 

o 

Our  first  warm  kiss  was  registered  above  ; 
For  nuptial  rite,  the  smiling  gods  approving 
Looked  from  the  clouds,  and  marked   the 
seal  of  love  ! 


18  THURID. 

tu  Then  think  thee,  Thurid,  naught  that  is  can 

sever 
That    binding    marriage,    hallowed    in   its 

power ! 

Mine  thou  art  only,  now,  and  e'en  forever, 
In  th'    unknown  life,  that  borders  death's 
dark  hour ! 

"  Thou  lov'st  not  Thorodd  ;  '  twas  but  erring 

duty 

That  stirred  thy  pity  for  that  dotard  gray. 
He  needs  it  not !  —  Then  blight  not  love  and 

beauty 

With    drivelling   cares,    nor   waste   youth's 
fleeting  day. 

"  But  o'er  the  seas,  where  other  stars  are  shin 
ing 

O'er  other  lands,  than  this  by  far  more  fair, 
We'll  sink  the  past,  and  leave  all  vain  repin 
ing. 
And  wealth  of  love  shall  be  our  only  care ! 

"  Then  fly  with  me,  to  where  my  bark  is  rid 
ing 


THURID.  19 

Off  green  Raunhaven's  stormless  rock-bound 

bay, 
And  once  embarked,  to  favoring  winds  confid- 

ing> 
Another  sun  will  find  us  far  away  !  " 


"  Ask  me  not,  Biorn  !  Here  in  tears  entreat 
ing, 

Hear  me  conjure  thee  :  leave  me  here  alone  ! 
For  only  thee,  my  tired  heart  is  beating, 

To  Thorodd  wed,  my  love  is  all  thine  own. 

"  Yet  whispering  conscience  speaks  its  ready 

warning, 

And  sadly  says,  our  lives  must  lie  apart,  — 
And  bids  me  wait,  through  weary  days  of 

mourning, 

Till   welcome    death    unites    us,    heart    to 
heart !  " 


O'er  Biorn's  brow  the  angry  blood  is  rushing, 
As  Thurid  speaks  ;  yet  silently  he  stands, 


"20  THURID. 

While    every   word   each    lingering    hope   is 

crushing, 

And   thwarted   passion   all    his   soul   com 
mands. 

"  A  love  that  falters  in  its  goal's  attaining, 
Or  hesitates  when  coward  conscience  calls, 

Is  basely  weak,  and  matters  not  the  gaining  ! 
A  bloodless  love,  that  e'en  its  goal  appalls ! 

"  Thou  know'st  thy  heart,  and  doubtless  thou 

hast  taken 
The  course  thy  cautious  reason  deems  most 

fair,  — 
I  laud  thy  sense  of  duty  all  unshaken, 

And  leave  thee,  false  one,  to  thy  Thorodd's 
care." 

And  e'en  ere  Thurid  calms  her  heart's  mad 

beating, 
Or  ere  her  voice  one  answering   word  has 

found, 

She  hears  his  foot-fall  die  away,  retreating, 
And    moaning  low,   falls   swooning   to  the 
ground  ! 


THURID.  21 

Back  draws  the  crowd,  as  Biorn  onward  press 
ing* 
With  hurrying  step,  and  dark,  forbidding 

mien, 

To  those  around,  no  farewell  word    address 
ing, 

Heeds  not  the  throng,  and  hastens  from  the 
scene ! 


A  misty  line,  Raunhaven's  shore  is  sinking, 
The  bark  breasts  onward  with  the  urging 

blast, 

She  swiftly  flies,  and  league  to  league  is  link 
ing. 
Till  e'en  the  headlands  drop  from  sight  at 

last. 

In  Froda's  halls  a  moaning  woman  wanders 
The  whole  night  long,  nor  seems  to  think  of 

rest, 

But  tearless  walks,  with  vacant  air,  and  pon 
ders 

On  some  dull  grief  that  racks  her  aching 
breast. 


22  THURID. 


PART  SECOND. 

The  firelight,  bright  and  ruddy,  fell 
On  oaken  beam  and  blackened  wall, 

And  wavering,  faint,  anon  would  swell 
In  radiant  glow  throughout  the  hall, 

With  color  warm,  that  came  and  went, 

A  phantom  blush  o'er  darkness  sent ! 

Through  scarce  closed  shutters  found  its  way 
A  pale  moon-beam  of  frozen  light  ; 

All  pure  and  motionless  it  lay, 

A  soul  it  seemed  from  the  outer  night, 

Far  wandering  on  some  mission  blest, 

Here  resting  as  the  fire-light's  guest. 

Refined  and  calm,  though  from  the  same 

Wild  fiery  cause,  serene  it  lay, 
And  coldly  watched  the  baser  flame 

At  savage  sport  on  the  hearth-stone  gray, 
And  gave  fresh  tone  to  the  silvered  hair 
Of  the  sad-faced  woman  crouching  there. 

Alone  she  sat,  with  absent  eyes 
Fixed  on  the  glowing  coals  intent, 


THURID.  23 

And  watched  the  red  flames  fall  and  rise, 

'Mid  mounting  sparks  that  came  and  went, 
With  bended  brow  and  drooping  head, 
Tracing  the  past  in  th'  embers  red. 


Dreamy  summers  in  green  array, 
Dreary  winters  with  biting  cold, 

Slowly,  sadly,  had  passed  away, 

Leaving  her  loveless,  hopeless,  and  old, 

Longing  for  death  as  the  only  goal 

Of  rest  and  sleep  for  her  weary  soul. 

Looking  back  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Gloomy  vista  of  pain  and  care, 

Sees  she  her  young  heart  drowned  in  tears, 
Pining  for  bliss  that  she  may  not  share, 

Forbidden  to  love  where  she  loves  alone, 

Filled  with  a  passion  she  dare  not  own. 

Sees  she  herself,  enchained  for  life, 
Hampered  in  bonds  by  duty  sealed, 

Widowed  her  heart,  while  yet  a  wife, 
Feigning  a  love  which  she  cannot  yield  ; 

And  sees  the  lover  she  thought  had  died, 

Returning  at  last  to  claim  his  bride  ! 


24  THURID. 

Coming,  to  find  her  newly  wed, 

Entrapped,  betrayed,  by  false  report ; 

Cruel  the  parting  words  he  said, 

And  angered,  left  her  with  anguish  fraught, 

To  wail  her  fate,  and  to  curse  the  power 

That  ruled  the  chance  of  her  natal  hour  ! 


He  left  her  thus,  and  not  one  word, 

Or  hopeful  sign,  or  token  fair, 
Had  e'er  been  sent  by  him,  or  heard, 

To  tell  her  e'en  he  lived  and  where. 
She  only  knew,  in  by-gone  years 
He  left  her  there,  alone,  in  tears  ! 

She  saw  the  ashes  spread  below 

The  hissing  logs  from  whence  they  came, 
As  pure  and  white  as  virgin  snow, 

Yet  tinged  with  red  by  the  flick'ring  flame ; 
Beheld  a  husband,  fond  though  stern, 
A  slighted  love,  a  funeral  urn. 

With  widowed  heart  and  widowed  hand, 

In  lonely  state  at  Freda's  hall, 
She  weary  notes  the  waning  sand 

From  out  her  glass  engulfed  fall, 


THURID.  25 

And  sees  unmoved,  that  clay  by  day, 
Her  faint  strength  sinks  in  slow  decay. 

While  lost  in  reveries  sad  like  these, 
Unnoticed  comes  the  noise  without 

Of  bolts  withdrawn  and  rattling  keys, 
And  stranger's  voice  in  answering  shout, 

And  heavy  footsteps  drawing  near,  — 

Yet  naught  awakes  her  sleeping  ear. 

And  hot  till  foot-falls  struck  the  floor, 
And  strangers  stood  within  the  room, 

Did  Thurid  gain  herself  once  more 
And  peering  toward  the  dusky  gloom 

That  shades  the  doorway,  strives  to  rise, 

And  asks  their  aim  with  anxious  eyes. 

Rough  men  they  were,  but  with  an  air 

That  marked  their  hearts  of  gentler  mould  ; 

A  front  that  bade  the  foe  beware ! 
An  open  mien  that  plainly  told 

Of  soul  unstained  and  guileless  mind, 

Revengeful  foes,  yet  friends  o'er  kind  I 

In  seamen's  garb  they  both  were  clad, 
On  faces  brown  they  bore  the  trace 


26  THURID. 

Of  wind  and  sun,  and  each  one  had 
A  bearing  proud,  and  easy  grace, 
That  spoke  the  habit  of  command, 
And  marked  the  chief  011  sea  or  land. 

"  My  brother  and  myself  are  here,"  — 
Thus  spoke  the  foremost  of  the  pair, 

Who  seemed  the  elder,  drawing  near, — 
"  To  doff  the  load  that  now  we  bear 

Of  duty  to  a  distant  friend. 

This  brings  us  hither,  this  our  end. 

"  Our  story  strange  is  shortly  told : 

Some  two  years  since,  by  adverse  gales, 

We  lost  the  course  we  sought  to  hold, 
The  savage  North- wind  caught  our  sails, 

And  tore  them  on  the  bending  mast, 

And  bore  us  powerless  on  the  blast. 

"  O'er  countless  leagues  of  angry  sea, 
We  bore  to  southward,  and  for  days 

The  murky  heavens  lent  no  key 
Of  guiding  stars  or  slanting  rays 

Of  fiery  sun,  to  show  us  where 

Upon  the  trackless  waste  we  were. 


THURID.  27 

"  We  drifted  onward,  ever  on; 

And  when  at  last  we  hoped  no  more, 
And  in  despair  sat  tired  and  wan, 

We  dimly  traced  a  line  of  shore, 
One  moment  hid  by  mist  and  rain, 
Then  faintly  peering  out  again. 

"  And  now  when  every  heart  was  cheered, 
The  gale  grew  faint  with  wasted  strength, 

The  warming  sun  at  last  appeared, 

And  showed  the  coast-line  stretch  its  length 

In  rocky  headlands,  bluff  and  high, 

Till  distance  screened  them  from  the  eye. 

"We  looked  upon  a  shore  unknown, 

And  gazed  entranced  at  the  line 
Of  verdant  hills  with  trees  o'ergrown, 

And  rocky  ledges  fringed  with  pine  ; 
Each  moment  some  green  wonder  drew 
Our  eager  eyes,  and  cheered  our  view. 

"  We  found  a  haven  smooth  and  fair ; 

But  scarce  had  reached  the  welcome  strand, 
Ere  crowding  on,  with  flowing  hair 

And  brazen  skins,  a  savage  band 


28  THUK1D. 

Of  shouting  men,  with  hostile  mien, 
Sprang  on  us  from  each  covert  green  ! 

"  O'erborne  by  numbers,  we  were  bound 
With  leathern  cords,  and  made  to  wait, 

Close  tied  and  cramped  upon  the  ground, 
Until  the  chief  decreed  our  fate  ; 

And  bade  us  either  live  as  slaves, 

Or  tortured  sink  to  welcome  graves  ! 

"  Ere  long  an  aged  man  drew  nigh ; 

Of  paler  hue,  unlike  the  rest, 
With  eyes  deep  set  and  forehead  high, 

And  snowy  beard  upon  his  breast ; 
A  mien  majestic,  carriage  free,  — 
He  seemed  a  man  of  high  degree. 

"  He  scanned  us  o'er  with  kindly  eyes, 
And  spoke  to  us  in  barb'rous  tongue  ; 

And  answering  not,  to  our  surprise, 

He  asked  what  strange  mischance  had  flung 

Our  bark  on  this  remotest  strand, 

In  th'  accents  of  our  native  land  ! 

"  And  when  our  wondrous  tale  was  told, 
And  who  we  were,  and  whence  we  came, 


THURID.  29 

A  down  his  cheek  the  tear-drop  rolled, 

And  pity  shook  his  aged  frame  ; 
And  turning  to  the  savage  horde, 
He  bade  them  cut  each  binding  cord. 

"  Long  weeks  we  tarried  with  our  friend, 
Who  asked  us  o'er  and  o'er  again 

About  ourselves,  and  e'er  would  lend 
An  anxious  ear  and  eager  brain 

Whene'er  we  spoke  of  Iceland's  shore, 

And  homes  we  thought  to  see  no  more  ! 

"  We  vainly  asked  him  in  our  turn, 
About  himself,  and  whence  he  came, 

His  early  life ;  but  ne'er  could  learn  ; 
His  answer  always  came  the  same  : 

fc  Seek  not  to  rouse  the  buried  years, 

Let  memory  rest  and  dry  her  tears  ! ' 

"  Meantime  we  strove  to  fit  again 
Our  bark  to  breast  the  angry  wave, 

And  bear  us  homeward  o'er  the  main, 
Or  else  to  grant  one  common  grave, 

So  that  together  we  might  die  ! 

Together  join  the  gods  on  high  ! 


80  THURID. 

"  While  thus  we  toiled,  a  fever  dire 

Brought  low  the  life-blood  of  our  friend  ; 

With  troubled  brain,  and  veins  on  fire, 
He  felt  approach  the  clouded  end 

Of  life's  entanglement  of  woe 

And  joys  we  dream  of,  never  know  ! 

"  And  when  the  rank  disease  had  run 
Its  burning  course,  his  weary  breath 

Betokened  that  his  work  was  done, 
And  told  him  to  prepare  for  death  ; 

And  straightway  then,  ere  yet  he  died, 

He  bade  me  hasten  to  his  side :  — 

u  t  While  yet  my  laboring  breath  remains 
To  frame  my  thought,'  he  faintly  said, 

'  And  ere  my  fading  reason  wanes, 

And  strangers  lay  me  with  their  dead, 

A  kindness  I  would  ask  of  thee, 

To  bear  a  token  o'er  the  sea  ; 

"  '  If  faithless  Fortune  should  be  kind, 
And  guide  thee  to  thy  native  shore, 

I,  dying,  bid  thee  strive  to  find 
A  lady  fair, 'who  dwelt  of  yore 


THURID.  31 

At  Froda,  on  the  ragged  way 
That  leads  to  fair  Raunhaven's  Bay. 

44  4  Her  name  is  Thurid  ;  if  she  live, 
I  charge  thee  bear  to  her  this  ring, 

And  with  it  but  this  message  give,  — 
"  To  Thurid  would  this  bauble  bring 

Remembrance  of  her  plighted  word,  — 

To  wed  the  one  her  heart  preferred." 

" '  Or,  if  beneath  the  heather  fair 

You  find  she  rests,  search  out  the  place 

Wherein  she  lies,  and  set  it  there 

Amid  the  flowers  that  chance  to  grace 

That  holy  spot,  wherein  doth  rest 

That  loving  heart,  that  guileless  breast ! ' 

44  And  as  he  spoke,  he  feebly  took 
From  off  his  hand  a  ring  of  gold, 

And  gave  it  to  me  with  a  look 
Of  glad  relief,  that  sadly  told 

He  feared  not  now  th'  approach  of  death, 

Nor  wished  to  stay  his  fainting  breath ! 

44 1  never  heard  him  speak  again  ; 

For  now,  at  last,  the  favoring  breeze, 


32  THURID. 

We  long  had  waited  for  in  vain, 
Arose  to  urge  us  o'er  the  seas ; 
And  bearing  eastward  from  the  shore, 
We  sought  our  distant  land  once  more. 

"  'Twere  needless  to  recount  the  toil 

And  dangers  dire  through  which  we  passed, 

Ere  once  again  our  native  soil 

We  touched,  and  reached  our  homes  at  last ; 

And  nought  remains  for  us  to  do, 

But  proffer  now  this  ring  to  you." 

And  moving  now  to  where  she  stands, 
Transfixed  and  stunned  by  what  he  says, 

He  lays  the  jewel  in  her  hands ; 

She  speaks  not,  but  her  face  betrays, 

Though  vainly  she  essays  control, 

The  turmoil  of  her  startled  soul ; 

She  silent  stands,  yet,  tearless,  tries, 

With  lips  unanswering,  —  all  in  vain,  — 

To  frame  the  whirling  thoughts  that  rise 
Within  her  hot  and  fevered  brain. 

A  chilling  languor  round  her  grows, 

And  o'er  her  sense  a  shadow  throws ! 


THURID.  33 

One  moment  thus,  and  then  a  light 
Unearthly  o'er  her  eyes  has  passed ; 

And,  rising  to  her  utmost  height, 

With  quickened  breath  she  speaks  at  last, 

And,  pointing  to  the  vacant  chair, 

She  bids  them  note  the  figure  there. 

"  He  rises  now  and  becks  me  on  ! 

I  follow,  Biorn  ;  frown  not  so  ! 
Nor  look  at  me  so  sad  and  wan ; 

I'll  follow  wrheresoe'er  you  go  ! 
For  welcome  death  comes  on  apace ; 
The  grave  must  be  our  trysting-place ! 

A  rigid  fixedness,  the  sign 

Her  spirit  struggles  to  be  gone, 
Constrains  each  lineament,  and  line 

Upon  her  face  ;  —  the  deathly  dawn, 
That  guides  her  to  a  fairer  sphere, 
Breaks  on  her  vision,  pure  and  clear ! 

The  fire-light  waned  and  faintly  fell 
On  oaken  beam  and  blackened  wall ; 
I 


34  THURID. 

No  longer  does  the  mistress  dwell 
In  Froda's  bare  and  dreary  hall. 
The  frozen  moonbeam  sinks  to  rest 
On  Thurid's  now  o'er  quiet  breast. 


CHARITY. 


CHARITY. 


PART   FIRST. 


THE   hot  midsummer  sun,  that,  through  the 

day 

Of  ardent  toil,  had  slaked  his  burning  thirst 
From  each  cool  stream  that  in  his  pathway 


And  drained  its   current  low,  now  sank  im 

mersed 

In  cool,  refreshing  clouds,  that  proudly  nursed 
The  bright  remembrance  of  his  kissed  good 

night, 

In  flaming  glory,  various  hued,  that  burst 
Upon  the  eye  enraptured  at  the  sight, 
And  decked  the  distant  hills  in  mystic  radi 

ance  bright  ! 


88  CHARITY. 

Upon  the  greensward,  sloping  to  the  road, 
From  where  a  modest,  rude-built  cottage  stood, 
Half  hid  in  flowering  vines,  a  fair  abode, 
Sits  Charity  alone,  in  thoughtful  mood, 
With  absent  eyes  fixed  on  the  purple  hood 
Of   sunset    clouds,    which     tops    the    distant 

hills. 

The  evening  song  of  birds  from  out  the  wood 
Hard  by,  a  maze  of  pretty  chirps  and  trills, 
With  thoughts  of  wakening  love  her  dream 
ing  spirit  fills : 

Untouched,  beside  her,  stands  the  idle  wheel ; 
With  face  upturned  and  resting  on  her  hand, 
Her  eyes,  unwavering,  hazel  depths  reveal, 
That  speak  of   courage   and   the  soul's  com 
mand. 
Her   rich,    brown   hair,    by    twilight    breezes 

fanned, 

A  matchless  framing  makes  for  that  fair  face, 
Whereon  .the  rosy  hue  of  health  doth  stand  ; 
While  every  line  and  feature  bears  the  trace 
Of   inborn    gentleness   and    untaught    modest 
grace. 


CHARITY.  39 

Her  simple  gown  of  finest  homespun  made, 
Betrays  the  contour  of  a  figure  rare  ; 
The  silken  'kerchief,  o'er  her  shoulders  laid, 
A  pleasing  charm  and  stolen  grace  doth  wear. 
From  happy  contact  with  a  form  so  fair  I 
And,  as  she  sits  thus,  often  doth  a  sigh 
Escape  her  breast,  a  sigh  not  born  of  care, 
An  echo  merely,  which  doth  soft  reply 
To  longings  whispered  by  a  heart  where  love 
doth  lie  ! 

Save  nature's  harmony,  the  myriad  tones 

Of  insect   wings,    and   birds,  and   whisp'ring 

leaves, 

And  brooklet  rippling  over  moss-grown  stones, 
No  other  sound  the  soothed  ear  receives ; 
The  hour  it  is,  when  fancy  deftly  weaves 
Her  web  impalpable  ;  with  care  oppressed, 
The  weary  soul  its  trammeled  life  relieves, 
Awakes  new  sense  within  the  burdened  breast, 
Communes  with  nature's  self,  and  solace  finds 

and  rest. 

And  thus  to-night  doth  Charity  confide 
Her  secret  life  unto  the  listening  wind 


40  CHARITY. 

And  sun-tinged  clouds,  nor  e'en  would  seek  to 
hide 

Her  inmost  soul,  to  new-born  love  inclined  ; 

But  proffers  all,  nor  leaves  one  thought  be 
hind. 

Her  dreamy  fancy  leads  her,  unrestrained, 

And  paints  bright  pictures,  vague  and  unde 
fined, 

Yet  all  with  glowing  colors  bright  ingrained, 

Where  only  trusting  love  and  gladness  are  con 
tained. 

While  thus  intent  on  meditations  sweet 

And  deep,  her  soul  in   blissful   thought   lies 

drowned, 

She  does  not  heed  the  sound  of  horse's  feet, 
That,  faintly  heard  at  first,  now  nearer  sound, 
And  wake  the  sleeping  echoes  all  around. 
But  when,   at   last,   she   notes   the   thudding 

tread 

Of  hoofs,  now  close,  upon  the  dusty  ground, 
She  strives    to  rise,   and,  startled,   turns  her 

head, 
While,   coursing   o'er    her    cheeks,    the    rosy 

blushes  spread. 


CHARITY.  41 

And,  drawing  near,  the  horseman  checks  his< 

pace, 

And  brings  his  steed  upon  the  roadside  greerrT 
And   guides   him,  all   impatient,   toward  the 

place 

Where  Charity  doth  sit ;  and  then  with  mien 
Wherein  far  more  than  bare  regard  is  seen, 
He  gayly  greets  her,  and  she  doth  return 
His  salutation  with  a  smile  serene, 
Yet  blushes  deeper,  lest  he  should  discern 
Her  crimsoned  cheeks,  which  now  with  height 
ened  color  burn. 

The  rider,  Wilmot  Lee,  upon  his  brow 
Bears  stamped  the  token,  clear  and  well-de 
fined, 

That  marks  the  one  whom  nature  cfoth  endow 
With  kindly  heart  and  unsuspecting,  mind ;  — 
A  man  whose  every  instinct  is*  refined,  — 
By  fortune  favored,  from  his  birth,  with  place 
And  health  and  wealth  and  all  that  is  inclined 
To  dull  the  soul,  and  sympathy  efface, 
He,  modest,  wears  them  all  with  decency  and 
grace. 


42  CHARITY.      ' 

That  something  indefinable  in  line 

Of  feature  and  of  form, —  that  nameless  air 

Which  speaks  the  gentleman  inborn,  the  sign 

Of  race,  and  breeding  high,  and  culture  rare, 

His  presence  all  unconsciously  doth  wear. 

His  riding-coat,  close  fitting,  doth  betray 

A   large,   yet   well-knit  frame ;   his  shoulders 

square, 

And  broad,  deep  chest,  a  latent  strength  dis 
play, 
A  figure  nobly  built  and  formed  of  noble  clay  ! 

So  closely  every  movement  of  his  steed 
He  lightly  follows,  that  it  seems  his  own. 
The  horse,  with  full,  wide  breast,  and  limbs 

for  speed 
Well    made,    and    wiry    neck,    well    upward 

thrown, 
And    chestnut-coat,    that   sleek   and    lustrous 

shone, 

Seemed  worthy  of  the  load  he  lightly  bore. 
He  needed  but  the  rider's  voice  alone 
To  speed  him  on,  or  check ;  to  him  'twas  law, 
And  stinging  spurs  or  lash  could  urge  him  on 

no  more. 


CHARITY.  43 

The  rider's  eyes  and  Charity's  express, 
In  one  short,  earnest,  heart-disclosing  glance, 
A  shrinking  love  that  neither  dares  confess ; 
And  then,  in  tones  whose  softness  doth  enhance 
The  import  of  the  idle  words  which  chance 
And  random  thought  suggest,  with  stifled  sighs, 
They  talk  of  trifles  !     In  a  happy  trance 
Of   love -lit  thought,  with   tender,    downcast 

eyes, 
She  sits.     All  earth  seems  fair,  and  cloudless 

seem  the  skies ! 

How  slight  a  substance  hath  the  fairest  joy, 
When,  with  the  breath  that  frames  some  triv 
ial  word, 

Is  blasted  all  the  scanty,  thin  alloy 
Of  happiness,  we  idly  dreamed  secured, 
And    nought    remains    but    worthless    dross ! 

Deep  stirred, 

With  sudden  grief  the  stricken  soul  is  rife, 
At  some  light,  careless  speech  ;  and  sees  de 
ferred 

The  hope  of  freedom  from  its  wonted  strife ! 
For  thus  do  trifles  touch  our  hidden,  inmost 
life! 


44  CHARITY. 

And  so,  when  Wilmot  said  he  must  be  gone, 
As,  ere  he  slept  that  night,  before  him  lay, 
O'er  rough  and  lonely  roads,  but  little  worn, 
A  ride  to  Boston,  many  miles  away  ; 
And  answering  Charity,  whose  eyes  convey 
A  look  of  curiosity  ;  "I  go," 
He  said,  "  to  seek  a  ship  within  the  bay, 
That  sails  for  England  ! "    All  the  joyous  glow 
Forsook  her   heart,  and  checked   her   pulse's 
happy  flow ! 

"  The  urgent  voice  of  friends  from  o'er  the  sea, 
And  cares  forgot  amid  these  pleasant  scenes, 
And  hard,  exacting  duty,  all  decree 
That  I  should  homeward   turn.      My  feeling 

leans 

Towards  further  sojourn  mid  these  leafy  screens 
Of  forest  broad  and  deep,  where  life  is  true 
And  natural ;  where  every  kind  act  means 
Regard,  and  has  no  further  end  in  view ; 
But  judgment  bids  me  haste  to  say  to  all, 

adieu!" 

As  'neath  the  tranquil  bosom  of  the  deep, 
Wild,  boist'rous  currents  flow,  concealed,  un 
known, 


CHARITY.  45 

Nor  wake  the  surface  from  its  glassy  sleep ; 
So  Charity,  whose  love  had,  startled,  flown, 
All  trembling,  from  her  eyes,  where  first  it 

shone, 

And,  wounded,  sought  its  refuge  in  her  heart, 
With   strange,   untaught   control,    and    pride 

alone 

In  woman  found  inborn,  and  native  art, 
Betrays  no  token  of  the  pain  his  words  impart ! 

Nor  says  she  aught  at  first ;  and  by  no  sign 
That  speaks  surprise,  or  troubled  look,  is 

shown 

The  sudden  turmoil  of  the  thoughts  that  line 
Her  fevered  heart ;  but,  finally,  in  tone 
As  unconcerned  and  easy  as  his  own, 
She  tells  him  that  his  many  friends  will  mourn 
The  absence  of  a  face  so  newly  grown 
Familiar ;  and,  to  distant  shores  though  gone, 
Kind  memories  of  his  name  will  still  be  freshly 

worn ! 

On  Wilmot's  ear,  the  tenor  of  her  speech 
Conventional,  falls  coldly  ;  and  the  heart 
That  he  had  sought,  though  all  in  vain,  to 
teach 


46  CHARITY. 

The  lesson  stern  of  duty,  all  its  part 
Of  forced  control  forgets,  and  newly  start 
The  pent-up  fires  of  love  within  his  breast ! 
The  very  tones,  which,  by  her  ready  art 
Of   self-command,   had   chilled   his   ear,    im 
pressed, 

Perversely,  all  his  heart  with  added  warmth 
and  zest ! 

And  lest  his  love,  new  lighted,  should  enforce 
Its  fair  avowal,  and  his  purpose  stay, 
He  hastens  to  be  gone,  his  sole  resource, 
And,  as  he  lifts  his  rein  and  rides  away,  — 
"  'Twere  little  need  to  bid  farewell  to-day," 
He  says,  "  To-morrow  evening,  once  again, 
I  shall  return,  to  spend  the  prized  delay 
Among  these  well-loved  friends,  ere  o'er  the 

main 
My  good   ship  sails,  and   shores  of  fair  New 

England  wane ! " 

A  moment  more,  and  he  is  lost  to  sight, 
Amid  the  deepening  shades,  and  but  the  beat 
Of  hoofs  breaks  on  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
And  fainter,  further  grows !     The  sounds  re 
peat, 


CHARITY.  47 

In  dying  cadence,  to  her  soul  replete 
With  woe,  each  word  her  ear  but  now  received. 
"  And  thus  doth  end  the  foolish,  fond  conceit, 
The  idle  dream  of  love  my  fancy  weaved ! 
Thy  course  is  run,  poor  heart,  thy  sorry  goal 
achieved ! " 

And  thus  communing  with  herself,  distraught 
And  sick  at  heart,  sits  Charity  ;  the  rein 
With  which  her  maiden  pride   so   long  had 

sought 

To  check  all  outward  token  of  the  pain 
Within  her  breast,  no  longer  doth  restrain 
Its  charge  ;  and  silent  start  her  heart-wrung 

tears. 

The  last,  soft  tints  of  mellow  sun-glow  wane  ; 
Each  golden  trace  of  daylight  disappears, 
While  grief,  around  her  heart,  its  darksome 

barrier  rears. 

Meanwhile,  as  through  the  darkness  Wilmot 

speeds, 

The  thought  of  Charity,  her  modest  air 
And   gentle   voice,   address   his   heart,  which 

pleads 


48  CHARITY. 

For  a  return  to  her  he  loves,  to  bear 
Assurance  of  that  love.     He  does  not  dare 
To  listen  to  its  tempting  tones,  or  pause, 
Lest  he  should  yield,  and  even  now  forswear 
His  wav'ring  purpose,  and  forget  its  cause  ; 
But  urges  on  his  steed  ;  his  rein  more  tightly 
draws ! 

When  sense  of  duty  strong  doth  prop  the  will, 
The  path   we  follow,   e'en   though  hard  and 

rude, 

And  narrow  though  its  bounds,  is  lighted  still 
With   sweet   approval   from    the   soul  ;    and, 

viewed 

Afar,  we  see  our  goal.     No  fears  intrude 
Upon  the  mind  to  check  our  plodding  feet ! 
But  let  a  doubt  assail  us,  then  are  strewed 
Along  our  way  perplexities  which  cheat 
Our  sense  !     Dark  grows  the  road,  and  warns 

us  to  retreat ! 

Thus  far  sustained  in  what  he  deemed  was  due 
To  prejudice  of  friends,  and  to  the  sphere 
In  which  he  moved,  made  of  the  chosen  few 
That  formed  his  world,  one  way  alone  seemed 
clear. 


CHARITY.  49 

From  early  childhood,  he  was  wont  to  hear 
That  never  love  'twixt  high  and  low  degree 
Could  hope  to  prosper ;   and  his  customed  ear 
Had  early  grown,  while  yet  his  heart  was  free, 
To  hear,  unquestioning,  society's  decree. 

No  vague  suspicion,  even  that  his  heart, 
For  her,  could  aught  save  bare  regard  contain, 
Or  but  a  fondest  friendship,  where  no  part 
Of  his  soul's  deeper  warmth  should  entrance 

gain, 
And  turn  his  thoughts  to  love,  had  crossed  his 

brain. 

But  when,   at   length,    his  hiding  heart  con 
fessed 

The  secret  truth,  one  only  course  seemed  plain, 
And  straightway  he  had  steeled  his  troubled 

breast, 

From  her  he  vainly  loved,  to  part,  with  soul 
oppressed. 

And  not  till  now,   when  riding  through  the 

night, 
And  fresh  from  converse  with  his  love,  alone, 

4 


50  CHARITY. 

With   time  for  thought,    do  doubts,    uneasy, 

blight 
His  earnest  strength  of  purpose  I     Now  come 

blown 

Across  the  mirror  of  his  mind,  where  shone 
His  duty's  image,  questionings  and  fears, 
Until  its  shining  surface  is  o'ergrown 
With  gathering  mist,  and,  clouded,  naught  ap 
pears 

Save  the  faint  picture  of  his  wounded  Jove  in 
tears ! 

He  harder  rides,  and  vainly,  would  escape 
The  dark  suspicion  that  his  judgment  erred 
In  urging  him  to  fly,  and  tries  to  shape 
And    prop    once    more    his    shaken    purpose, 

blurred 
And   weakened    by  the   flitting   doubts   that 

stirred 

Within  his  troubled  brain.     A  settled  frown 
Is  on  his  brow,  and  whispers  faintly  heard 
That  'scape  his  heart,  and  say,  Return,  weigh 

down 
His  soul.     And  thus  oppressed  he  nears  the 

lighted  town  ! 


CHARITY.  51 

PART   SECOND. 

The    sweet-breathed  dawn,  that   comes   with 

rustling  feet 

To  guide  the  new-born  day,  in  whispers  low 
Bids  sleeping  Charity  arise  and  greet 
The  early  sun  !     No  token  doth  she  show 
Of  the  salt,  burning  tears,  which  needs  must 

flow 

Ere  she  could  sink  to  rest,  but  with  a  mind 
Made  up  to  bear  with  cheerfulness  the  blow 
Her  heart  had  suffered,  she  doth  rise,  inclined 
To  bravely  meet  whate'er   may  be  her  fate, 

resigned  ! 

With  even  brow  and  ever  cheerful  mien, 

She  minds  her  simple  round  of  household  cares, 

And  sings,  while   at  her  task  ;  then,  on  the 

green 

Before  the  door,  when  all  is  done,  she  bears 
Once  more  her  spinning  gear,   and,  heedful, 

spares 

No  idle  moment,  ere  she  deftly  plies 
The  droning  wheel.     And  thus,  the  long  day 

wears 


52  CHARITY. 

Itself  away.     Her  heart  and  courage  rise 
And  gain  new  strength,  as  each  full,  busy  mo 
ment  flies. 

It  is  not  that  all  pain  has  left  her  breast,  — 
A  sorrow  doth  not  fade  so  soon  and  die,  — 
It   still   lies    rooted   there  ;    yet   though    op 
pressed 

And  sad  her  soul,  with  resolution  high 
She  stills  her  grief,  and  stifles  every  sigh, 
And,  uncomplaining,  strives  her  part  to  bear  ; 
And,  though  one  dearest  source  of  joy  is  dry, 
She  earnest  seeks  to  find  all  else  more  fair 
Than  e'er  before,  and  full  of  beauties  new  and 
rare  ! 

The  .brightest  time,  by  far,  in  all  the  day, 
For  Charity,  was  when,  his  labor  through, 
Her  father,  in  the  afternoon,  his  way 
Towards  home  would  weary  wend.     She  ever 

grew 

Impatient,  as  the  hour  approached,  and  knew 
The  very  moment,  from  long  habitude, 
At  which,  unerringly,  he  homeward  drew  ; 
The  hill  top,  o'er  which  crept  the  road,  she 

viewed 


CHARITY.  53 

With  watchful  eyes,  her  heart  with  fondest 
love  imbued. 

And  when,  at  last,  she  saw  him   mount  the 

hill, 

She  hastened  on  to  greet  him,  and  returned, 
Her  hand  in  his,  as  she  had  done  when  still 
A   child ;    and  when   her   instinct  quick  dis 
cerned 
He  seemed  well  pleased  with  what  the  day  had 

turned 

To  his  account,  and  that  his  brow  was  clear, 
She   asked   him   of  the  farm,  and  grew  con 
cerned 

In  mention  of  the  work,  and  then  would  hear 
Him    talk   of   fruitful  fields,  and   crops,  with 
eager  ear. 

But  when  he  met  her  with  a  smile  that  shone 
But  on  his  lips,  and  came  not  from  his  heart, 
She  spoke  not  of  the  fields,  and  sought  alone 
To  soothe  and  cheer  him,  and  would  strive  to 

start 
His    mind    toward    fairer   thoughts,    and    far 

apart 


54  CHARITY. 

From  rustic  cares.     And  when   their  homely 

meal 

Is  o'er,  beside  him  sits,  and  tasks  each  art 
To  please  ;  and  reads  the  Golden  Book  to  heal 
His  troubled  soul,  till  shades  of  twilight  round 

them  steal. 

And  so  to-night  she  waits  for  him.  —  The  hour 
Has  overrun,  and  just  within  the  door 
She  waiting  stands,  and  anxious  doth  devour, 
With  straining  eyes,  the   roadway    o'er   and 

o'er; 

Yet  still  he  comes  not.  —  Never  yet  before, 
Had  she,  thus  all  impatient,  watched  in  vain 
To  see  him  top  the  hill,  and  ever  more 
She  fears  and  wonders  what  strange  tangled 

train 
Of  hind'ring  circumstance,  his  steps  can  thus 

detain. 

Yet  now  a  sound  of  hoofs  and  jangling  chains 
Is  faintly  heard,  and  from  a  dusty  cloud 
That,  like   a   beacon's   warning  smoke,  slow 

trains 
Behind  him,  speeding  with   his  body  bowed 


CHARITY.  55 

To    meet    the   wind,    a   rider    comes.     Dark 

browed, 

He  presses  wildly  on,  with  anxious  face ; 
The    road-stained    horse,    with     trace-chains 

clanking  loud, 
And   rude  farm  harness  swinging,  shows  the 

trace 
Of  sudden   summons,  from  the    fields    to  fly 

apace. 

With  foam-flecked  bridle  strained,  he  hurries 

by, 

Unheeding  Charity,  —  and  once  again 
Are  faintly  heard,  and  in  the  distance  die, 
The  sounds  of  horse's  tread  and  rattling  chain  ; 
She  knows  the  horseman  for  a  yeoman  plain, 
Who  tilled  outlying  lands  some  miles  away. 
Unshaped     forebodings     dread     disturb     her 

brain . 

The  rider's  haste,  her  father's  strange  delay, 
Suggest  vague,  startling  fears,  her  judgment 

cannot  stay. 

Some  trouble  seems  on  foot !    Her  spirit  grows 
Impatient,  and  rebels  at  this  suspense. 


56  CHARITY. 

Not  overlong  lias  she  to  wait !  There  shows, 
Once  more,  far  up  the  road,  a  dust  cloud  dense, 
That  greater  grows,  and  ere  her  o'erstrained 

sense 

Has  ceased  to  hear  the  horseman  in  retreat, 
Her  anxious  ear  receives  with  dread  intense, 
The  sounds  of  jolting  wheels,  and  hurried  beat 
Of  hoofs,  that  nearer  draw,  and  echo  doth  re 
peat. 

And    down    the   hill,    at    headlong,    plunging 

speed, 
There    conies    a   rude    farm    wagon,    roughly 

drawn 
By    two   tired,  panting   horses.  —  Some  dire 

need 
Must  urge   them   on  their  way.     With    mien 

forlorn, 
A    crouching,   dust-stained    group    is    swiftly 

borne 

Along,  while  one  tall,  stalwart  figure  guides 
The   pressing  steeds,  whose  face  is   pale   and 

worn. 

Some  deeply  dark  anxiety  abides 
Within    his   breast ;  and,  on  his  brow,  black 

trouble  rides  ! 


CHARITY.  57 

At  slackened  pace  they  come,  and  when  abreast 
The  cottage  door,  draw  up.   And  then  straight 
way 

The  driver  springs  upon  the  green  ;  the  rest, 
Meantime,  converse   in    whispers    low,   while 

stray 

Their  frightened  glances  o'er  the  hill-top  gray 
Behind  them  !     With  a  sorely  troubled  brain, 
Wherein  relief  is  mingled  with  dismay, 
She  sees,  perplexed,  her  father  once  again 
Draw  toward  her,  with  a  look  he  strives  to 
hide,  in  vain. 

A  look  wherein  she  reads  of  trouble  near, 
And  yet  to  come  !     In  husky,  hurried  tone, 
He  speaks  :  "  Come,  Charity,  the  way  is  clear 
For  us  to  fly  !     The  road  behind  is  strewn 
With  dangers  dire  !     All  hope  of  rest  is  flown 
From  this  dear  home.     For  look  towards  the 

farm, 
Where    even    now    the    crackling    flames    are 

thrown 

High  heavenward  !     The  long  delayed  alarm 
Of   savage   strife   doth  sound,  and  bids  each 

Christian  arm  ! 


58  CHARITY. 

"  The  Indians,  with  Philip  at  their  head, 
Are  streaming  on  the  town  !  "     And,  at  the 

word, 

She  gazes  where  he  points.     The  sky  is  red 
With  newly  kindled  fires,  and,  faintly  heard, 
And  chilling  every  vein,  the  air  is  stirred 
With    sounds   of   savage   shouts,  that  nearer 

draw, 
Then    die,  then   rise    again ;  —  dread    sounds 

that  spurred 

Her  to  escape  !     They  came,  as  might  the  roar 
Of  fitful  waves  that  beat  upon  some  distant 

shore ! 

She  wastes  no  words,  nor  sheds  one  idle  tear, 
Her  woman's  soul  asserts  its  inborn  power. 
She  tarries  but  to  seize  the  thing  most  dear 
To  her  :  'twas  but  a  drooping,  withered  flower 
Of  eglantine,  a  treasure  since  the  hour 
When  Wilmot  gave  it  her  !    And  in  her  breast 
She  hides  it.     Now  no  longer  need  it  cower 
Or   droop,   when   near   to   such    a   heart    'tis 

pressed  ! 
And  then  she  hastens  to  the  road  to  join  the 

rest. 


CHARITY.  59 

Her  father  takes  his  flint-lock  from  the  nail, 
And  hastens  to  the  team,  and  once  again 
The  creaking  wagon  moves.     Once  more  the 

veil 

Of  dust  about  them  grows.     The  horses  strain 
Each   nerve   for   greater   speed.     With   loos 
ened  rein, 
And  straightened   necks,  and  nostrils  opened 

wide, 

They  onward  press  toward  the  pleasant  plain 
Whereon   the    village    lies.       The    sun    doth 

hide 

Behind  the  western  hills,  with  blood-red  color 
dyed. 

And   on   they   hasten    through    the    startled 

town ; 
The  alarm  has  spread ;  and  o'er  the  parching 

road 

Press  hastening,  their  figures  freighted  down 
With  hurried  salvage  from  each  loved  abode, 
Both  yeomen  young  and  old  ;  each  bears  his 

load 

Of  household  treasures.     Mothers,  by  the  hand 
Lead  frightened  children,  and  the  duty  owed 


60  CHARITY. 

To  those  whom  age  and  sickness  hath  un 
manned 

For  troublous  scenes  like  these,  though  bur 
dened,  none  withstand. 

The  crowding,  hurried  steps  of  all  are  turned 
Toward  the  garrison  ;  and  as  the  light 
Of  day  doth  fade,  the  naming  roofs  seem  burned 
Upon  the  hills  more  angrily  and  bright, 
Red  wounds  upon  the  bosom  of  the  night ! 
And    nearer   and   more   frequent    comes    the 

sound 

Of  hostile  shouts,  that  spurs  the  hurried  flight 
Of  all  who  hear  it,  while  the  flying  ground 
Grows  heavy,  and  doth   seem  to  hold  them 

clogged  and  bound  ! 

In  little  straggling  bands,  from  every  side, 
They  hurry  in,  with  faces  pale  and  worn, 
And  through  the  wooden  fortress  doors,  thrown 

wide, 
They    silent   pass ;    and    when    the  bolts    are 

drawn, 

And  all  at  last  are  housed,  some,  overborne 
By  sore  fatigue,  in  vain  seek  needed  rest 


CHARITY.  61 

In  troubled  sleep,  or  sit  apart  and  mourn 
Their  homes  in  tearless  silence  ;  while  some, 

blessed 

With  stronger  souls,  essay  to  cheer  each  shrink 
ing  breast ! 

In  one  long,  narrow,  dimly-lighted  room, 
They  gather ;  most  are  silent,  and  few  dare 
To  speak   in   aught  save  whispers.      A  dull 

gloom 

Doth  settle  over  all.     The  very  prayer 
The  minister  doth  offer  for  God's  care 
And  kindly  shelter  in  this  hour  of  need, 
Though  followed  from  their  hearts,  yet  seems 

to  bear 

No  reassurance  to  their  souls,  or  lead 
Their  hearts  to  hope,  or  bid  their  fear-bound 

breasts  be  free ! 

For  all  too  well  they  know  the  cruel  fate, 
That,  if  overborne,  awaits  them,  young  and  old, 
And  had,   ere  this,   been    theirs,  had  savage 

hate, 

So  long  pent  up,  a  few  short  hours  controlled 
Itself,  and  not  betrayed  by  overbold 


62  CHARITY. 

And  o'er-precipitate  attack,  ill-planned, 
Its  unripe  purpose.     Sturdy  hearts  grow  cold, 
That  knew  not  fear,  and  lose  their  used  com 
mand 

At  thought  that  such  dire  lot  had  been  so  close 
at  hand ! 

The  short  alarm,  the  urgent,  hurried  flight, 
Has  served  to  banish  every  other  thought 
From  out  the  breast  of  Charity,  and  blight 
The  recollection  of  all  else  ;  and  naught 
Of  Wilmot,  or  her  love,  has  once  been  brought 
To  mind  till  now,  when  in  her  heart  doth  burn 
The  sense  that  when   he  left  her,   sad,   dis 
traught, 

He  promised  for  to-night,  his  quick  return  ! 
And  now  his  danger  fills  her  soul  with  deep 
concern. 

For  even  now  toward  the  'leaguered  town, 
Unwarned  of  peril  near,  he  doubtless  rides ! 
Her  startled  heart  doth    sink,  deep  freighted 

down 

With  self-reproach,  and  sore  dismay  abides 
Within  her  breast.    The  thought  itself  decides 


CHARITY.  t)3 

Her  course  !  It  may  not  be  e'en  now  too  late 
To  warn  and  save  him.  Noiselessly  she  glides 
Unnoticed  from  the  room.  Nor  doth  she  wait 
For  further  parley  with  herself,  but  follows 
Fate! 

She    hastens,    trembling,    toward    the    close- 
barred  door, 

And  finds  it  guarded  ;  yet  she  doth  not  stay, 
But  bids  the  unwary  sentinel  withdraw 
For  further  orders  from  the  elders  gray, 
Who  bid  him  to  attend  Avithout  delay. 
And  scarcely  has  he  gone,  ere  she  doth  strain 
To  lift  the  oaken  bar  which  blocks  her  way, 
With  nervous,  hurried  hands,  and  once  again 
She  stands  beneath  the  sky,  with  fevered  heart 
and  brain. 

She  seeks  the  shadowed  skirting  of  the  road, 

And  for  an  instant  pauses  to  array 

Her  circling  thoughts,  and  then  her  love  dotli 

goad 

Her  on  to  flight.     No  longer  may  she  stay ; 
For  now,  from  out  the  garrison,  the  play 
Of   moving   lights,   that,    gleaming  here  and 

there, 


64  CHARITY. 

Pass  and  repass,  and  voices  loud,  betray 
Her  absence  known,  and,  with  a  silent  prayer, 
With   stealthy  tread    she    steals    away    with 
noiseless  care ! 

She  casts  no  look  behind,  but  hastens  on, 
And  holds  the  tangled  way,  all  overgrown 
With  weeds,  and  birches  showing  weird  and 

wan, 

A  matted  path,  with  briars  thickly  strewn, 
Which    borders    on    the    road,  where,    softly 

thrown, 
The    moonlight    rests.      The    voices    fainter 

sound, 

That  loudly  to  her  ear  but  now  came  blown, 
And,   as    she   faster   flies,    grow   hushed   and 

drowned 
In  sad,  soft  whispers  from  the  breeze-stirred 

trees  around. 

Too  well  she  knows  the  urgent  trying  part 
She  has  to  play ;  yet,  with  such  end  in  view, 
She  values  not  the  toil,  nor  loses  heart 
At  blanching  thought  of  crowding  dangers  new 
And  dread  that  press  around.    She  dares  to  do 


CHARITY.  65 

And  die,  if  need  be,  in  so  sweet  a  cause ! 
A  happier  lot  it  were  by  far,  to  woo 
Kind  death,  for  sake  of  him  her  soul  adores, 
Than  live  unloved,  to  nurse  a  love  her  pride 
deplores ! 

Two  rough-made  roads  lead  from  the  garrison, 
The  one  through  woods,  the  other  through  the 

town, 

And,  widely  spread,  unite  once  more  upon 
The  distant  highway,  dusty,  bare,  and  brown, 
With  frequent  travel,  that  winds  bleakly  down 
The  hills  toward  Boston.    Here  doth  lie  alone 
Her  hope  that  even  now  success  may  crown 
Her  heart's  wild  purpose,  and  with  this  hath 

grown 
Another  sweeter  hope,  she  scarce  doth  dare  to 

own  ! 

Can  she  but  reach  and  warn  him  to  avoid 

The  more  frequented  road,  she  need  not  fear. 

The  fires,  high  reaching,  mark  the  foe  em 
ployed 

Within  the  town !  The  woodland  way  lies 
clear, 

5 


66  CHARITY. 

But  yet  the  other  is  the  one  more  near 

To  touch  the  highway.     One  short  moment's 

gain 

Is  life,  may  be,  to  him  she  holds  most  dear. 
That  path  is  hers !  No  woman's  fears  restrain. 
The   choice   is   scarcely   weighed.     This  only 

course  seems  plain. 

And  thus  resolved,  she  leaves  the  covert  green, 
To  hasten  on  the  grass-grown  travelled  way, 
And  holds  the  beaten  path  that  runs  between 
The  furrowed  wheel  marks,   till    the  village 

gray 
Beneath  the  moonlight  shows,  when  she  doth 

stray 

Once  more  within  the  shady  coppice  near  — 
She   falters    not,    nor   gives    one    thought   to 

weigh 

Her  danger  dread,  but  ever,  bright  and  clear, 
Her  purpose  shines  before,   to  guide  her  on 

and  cheer  ! 

But  as  she  nears  the  fitful,  ruddy  glow, 

That  mars  the  pallor  of  the  moon's  cold  light, 

And  marks  the  vandal  work  of  savage  foe, 


CHARITY.  67 

And  notes  the  drifting  cloud  of  cinders  bright, 
Float  o'er  the  tree-tops,  shriveled  by  its  flight, 
And  hears  so  close  at  hand  the  baleful  sound 
Of  falling  roof-trees,  e'en  her  soul  takes  fright, 
And    where    the    sombre    branches     darkest 

frowned, 
She  hastens  thither  o'er  the  mossy  leaf-strewn 

ground. 

Anon,  through  some  deep  vista  of  the  wood, 
Dark,  narrow,  and   quick    traversed,  she    de 
scries, 

Where,  but  an  hour  ago,  a  cottage  stood, 
A  glowing  ruin,  whence  doth  slowly  rise 
A  spangled  smoke-cloud,  trailing  to  the  skies. 
And,  for  an  instant,  as  she  hurries  past, 
Wild,  dusky  figures  meet  her  straining  eyes, 
Which,  where    the   lurid  flames   are   highest 

cast, 

In  maddened  revel  round   about  them   circle 
fast. 

The  mingled  sounds  of  ruin  fainter  grow, 
And  now  the  flame-doomed  town  doth  lie  be 
hind, 


68  CHARITY. 

Yet  still  she  holds  the  wood,  whose  branches 

throw 

Their  shielding  arms  above  her,  close  en 
twined, 

Until  the  path  she  follows,  seems  to  wind 
Towards  the  beaten  way,  and  once  again 
She  takes  the  dusty  road,  and  looks  to  find 
Some    well-known    landmark,  but   yet  all  in 

vain  ; 

No  spot  familiar  doth  her  anxious  gaze  re 
tain  ! 

Near  by,  a  smoking  heap  of  rubbish  lies ! 

Once  more  she  looks  around  with  troubled 
breast, 

And  now  a  veil  seems  lifted  from  her  eyes, 

And  all  grows  plain,  though  darkness  doth  in 
vest 

Her  love-lit  heart,  with  this  new  grief  op 
pressed  ; 

For  where  had  been  her  home,  doth  now  ap 
pear 

Naught  but  a  smouldering  ruin  like  the  rest ! 

The  funeral  pyre  of  all  she  held  most  dear 

'Midst  old  remembrances  now  rising  sweet 
and  clear! 


CHARITY.  69 

And  down  her  cheek  the  tears  unbidden  steal, 
As,  pausing  for  an  instant,  she  surveys 
This  scene  of  desolation,  and  doth  feel 
Her  heart  grow  full  to  bursting  ;  yet  she  stays 
Not  long  in  such  drear  reverie  to  gaze 
At  this  dead  home,  in  idle,  dull  despair, 
But  hastens  on,  wrapped  in  a  troubled  maze 
Of  thought.     Once  o'er  the  hill,  the  highway 

bare 

Is  almost  reached.     Her  goal  shows  then  dis 
tinct  and  fair  ! 

The  dismal  roll  and  murmur  of  the  fire 
Grows  fainter  still  !    Yet  as  she  flies  the  place, 
Comes,  indistinct  at  first,  yet  doubly  dire 
In  import,  a  dread  sound,  that  from  her  face 
Sends  back  the  color  !     Her  strained  ear  doth 

trace 

Afar,  yet  coming  nearer,  the  faint  beat 
Of  hoofs,  that  hurry  from  the  town  apace. 
She  tops  the  hill,  and  now  with  fear -winged 

feet, 

Doth  hasten  down  the  road,  in  unconcealed  re 
treat. 


70  CHARITY. 

The  highway  now  is  reached,  but  ere  she  turns 
To  enter  it,  from  out  the  vale  behind 
Three    hurried    steeds    her    anxious    eye    dis 
cerns 

Bear  o'er  the  hill-top,  faster  than  the  wind. 
It  seems  as  if  some  evil  hand  confined 
Her  powerless  there,  and   checked  her  eager 

flight. 

She  presses  on,  but  terror  seems  to  bind 
Her  faltering  feet  ;  and  palsied  with  affright, 
She  strives,  though  all  in  vain,  to  shun  the 
horsemen's  sight. 

With  savage,  wild  halloo,  the  foe  give  chase, 
And  faster,  nearer  comes  the  beating  tread 
Of  horses'  feet,  that  speed  at  headlong  pace. 
Escape   seems  hopeless,  and  her  heart  grows 

dead, 

And  pulseless  sinks  before  the  prospect  dread 
That  threatens  her,  while  through  her  whirling 

brain 

A  thousand  thoughts,  upon  the  instant  bred, 
In  tangled  sequence  pass.     A  vivid  train 
Of  long-forgotten  hopes  and  fears,  of  joy  and 

pain  ! 


CHARITY.  71 

Her  sinews  fail !     She  can  no  further  fly, 
And,  in  despair,  sinks  fainting  to  the  ground. 
She  breathes  a  prayer,  and  waits  prepared  to 

die,  — 

When  breaks  upon  her  ear  the  even  sound 
Of  hoofs  that  draw  towards  her  from  around 
A  mossy  knoll,  which  near  at  hand  doth  rise 
Before  her,  thickly  wooded,  and  doth  bound 
The   moonlit    road,   and   now,  with    startled 

eyes, 
A  horseman,  coming  toward   her  slowly,  she 

descries. 

With  bridle  loose,  and  head  bent  on  his  breast, 
As  though  in  deepest  thought,  he  slowly  rides. 
His  face  is  sad,  as  though  some  sorrow  pressed 
Upon  his  soul,  and  absently  he  guides 
His  well-trained  steed.     The  roadside  shadow 

hides 

His  down-turned  face,  but  as  he  nearer  draws, 
And  passes  where  a  ray  of  moonlight  glides 
Athwart  the  road,  one  glance  bright  hope  re 
stores 

To  Charity,  and  through  her  breast  new  cour 
age  pours. 


72  CHARITY. 

'Tis  Wilmot,  and  she  hurries  to  his  side, 
And  as  she  flies  towards  him  doth  essay 
To  call  aloud,  but  now  her  voice  hath  died 
Within  her  !     She  can  only  point  'the  way 
With  eager,  urging  hands,  as,  with  dismay, 
She  hears  her  hot  pursuers  nearer  draw. 
Now  Wilmot  sees  her ;  hears  the  echoing  neigh 
And  stamp  of  hurried   steeds !     He  needs  no 

more 
To  warn  him  that  some  near,  dread  danger  is 

in  store. 

There  is  no  time  for  words,  and  little  need ! 
He    half    divines    the    truth,    and    with    the 

thought 

Leaps  to  the  ground,  and  lightly  on  his  steed 
Helps  Charity,  and  then,  with  bridle  short 
In  hand,  remounts.     The   horse  ere  this  has 

caught 

The  sense  of  peril  near ;  with  head  held  high, 
And  quiv'ring  flank,  and  tense  ears  backward 

brought, 
He  forward  springs.     The  moonlit  road  doth 

fly 

Beneath  them,  and   the    trees,  like  shadows, 
hurry  by ! 


CHARITY.  73 

And  now  they  enter  on  the  other  way 
Towards  the  garrison  ;  yet  not  before 
The  baffled  foe,  now  pressing  close,  betray, 
By  shrill  and  savage  cries,  which  o'er  and  o'er 
The  wooded  hills  and  echoing  rocks  restore, 
That  they  are  seen  ;  and  now  begins  a  race 
For  very  life,  while  Fate  doth  seem  to  draw 
Its  cruel  web  of  circumstance,  apace, 
About  the  flying  pair,  in  narrowing  embrace. 

By  slow  degrees,  the  pressing  foemen  gain 
Upon  them  ;  though  the  o'erladen  steed, 
That  bears  the  fugitives,  doth  onward  strain, 
With  spirit  high,  and  never-flagging  speed. 
Now  Wilmot  looks  behind,  and  there  is  need  ; 
For  close,  one  better  mounted  than  the  rest, 
Bears  fleetly  on,  and,  far  advanced,  doth  lead 
The  band,  and  to  his  ready  bow  hath  pressed 
E'en  now  a  shaft,  and  draws  the  bow-string  to 
his  breast. 

Quick  to  his  holster,  hurries  Wilmot's  hand  ! 
A  shining  barrel  points  towards  the  foe. 
The  horse,  obedient,  heeds  the  used  command, 
That  bids  him  start  nor  flinch  not,  whispered 
low  ; 


74  CHARITY. 

Then  follow  fast  a  sudden  blinding  glow, 
A  sharp  report,  a  stifled  cry  of  pain  ; 
And,  as  the  thin  smoke  clears  and  rises  slow, 
Is   seen    a   plunging   steed,    with    wild-tossed 

mane, 
To   bear   on   riderless    with    loosely   hanging 

rein  ! 

The  others  pause  not  for  their  comrade's  fall, 
But  onward  press,  with  maddened  hearts  on 

fire 
For    swift    and    dread    revenge.      Yet    now 

though  all 

Seems  dark  about  them,  and  with  perils  dire 
Their  way  is  thronged,  a  sweet  sense  doth  in 
spire 

The  soul  of  Wilmot,  doubts  are  laid  aside 
That  rose  of  late  to  rack  his  heart,  and  tire 
His  brain,  and  now  within  him  doth  abide 
A  spirit  calm  to  bear  whatever  may  betide. 

With  Charity  close  clinging,  as  he  rides, 

Her    trembling    hands    light    resting    on    his 

breast, 
He  would  not  change  for  all  his  life  besides 


CHARITY.  75 

This  chance  of  time  and  circumstance,  though 

pressed 

By  dangers  doubly  dread,  and  each  is  blessed 
With  sweet  assurance  of  the  love  of  each, 
More  clearly  far  than  words  have  yet  confessed, 
By  some    strange    influence,    that   deep   doth 

reach 
Their  souls,  more  potent  far  than  softest  looks, 

or  speech. 

Far  down  a  long,  straight  line  of  moonlit  road 
They  dimly  see   their   goal  !     And  now  the 

thought 

And  hope  of  life  that  e'en  till  now  had  glowed 
But  far  and  faintly  hath  returned,  and  wrought 
New  value  for  the  life  tlius  closely  bought. 
The  pressing  foemen  onward  faster  strain, 
Lest,  even  now,  the  chase  avail  them  naught ; 
And  press  their  steeds  by  urging  shout  and 

rein, 
As  surely,  swiftly,  on  the  flying  pair  they  gain. 

Lights  dance  within  the  garrison  !     The  sound 
Of  ringing  hoofs  strikes  on  the  startled  ear 
Of  those  within,  and  echoes  far  around. 


76  CHARITY. 

They,  all  alive  for  short  attack,  outpeer 
Upon  the   night,   and,   'neath    the   moonlight 

clear, 

Discern  the  hard-pressed  pair,  and,  short  be 
hind, 

The  hurrying  foe,  who  follow  fast  and  near ! 
A  second  glance  bears  to  each  wond'ring  mind 
The  truth  !  and  Charity's  dire  peril  is  divined  ! 

An  instant  more,  and  half  the  ready  guard 
Out-sally  to  the  road,  with  arms  in  hand  ! 
The  dread  pursuers,  riding  swift  and  hard 
Upon  the  curling  dust-cloud  that  is  fanned 
Towards  them,   maddened,  see  the  succoring 

band 

Press  on,  and,  heeding  the  outnumbering  foe, 
Draw  rein  ;   and  at  their  leader's  short  com 
mand, 

With  savage  shouts  retreat,  and,  as  they  go, 
The  echoes  swiftly,  far  and  ever  fainter  grow  ! 

The  chase  is  o'er ;  and,  now,  'midst  wondering 

friends, 
Who  crowd  around,  —  all  pale  and  weak  with 

fright, 


CHARITY.  77 

A  very  woman,  now  the  peril  ends, 
Fair  Charity  doth  tremblingly  alight, 
And  Wilmot  hears  the  story  of  her  flight, 
From  those  within,  and  listening,  through  his 

heart 

A  quick  succeeding  sense  of  soft  delight 
And    pain    and    fear,  all    born   of   love,   doth 

start,  — 
A    mingled,    soothing    sense,    where    trouble 

holds  no  part ! 

Close  guard  is  kept    throughout   the   weary 

night ; 

But  now  the  foe,  their  task  of  ruin  wrought, 
And  sated  with  their  work,  in  hurried  flight 
Retreat,  upon  the  vague,  swift-winged  report 
Of  strong  relief,  that  even  now  is  brought 
To  the  beleaguered  town,  and,  ere  the  dawn, 
Each  straggling  band  has  fled  afar,  and  naught 
Bespeaks   the   late    attack,  when    breaks  the 

morn, 
Save  -where  the   ruins  lie,  all  blackened   and 

forlorn. 


78  CHARITY. 

In    after    years,   'neath   ancient    oaks,   which 

spread 

Their  shady  branches  o'er  an  emerald  lawn, 
Doth  Wilmot,  seated  there,  with  bended  head, 
Close  to  an  eager  group  of  children  drawn 
Around  to  hear  the  story,  never  worn, 
Relate  how  o'er  the  sea,  'neath  other  skies, 
Their    mother,   sitting   there,   had   placed   in 

pawn 

Her  life  for  his ;  while  to  his  face  doth  rise 
A  look  of  love  and   trust,  she  answers  from 

her  eyes. 


GOODMAN    JOHN. 


GOODMAN    JOHN. 


How  often  doth  posterity  mistake 

The  soul  and  aim  of  what   their  sires  have 

done, 

And  with  an  unearned  lustre  gild  each  deed, 
And,  for  some  common,  human  motive  plain, 
Look  far  beyond  the  simple  end,  to  find 
Some  lofty  inspiration  to  great  deeds, 
Which  sober  truth  would  flout ! 

Poor  Goodman  John, 
That,  throughout  all  these  years,  we've  looked 

upon 

As  more  than  man,  a  martyr  to  his  faith, 
In    that    he,    tramelled,    broke    the    narrow 

bounds, 
The  spiritual  bars,  that  curbed  his  soul 

6 


82  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

In  far  off  England,  and  sought  freedom  here  ! 
This  third  Saint  John,  it  now  comes  out,  by 

chance, 

Was  but  a  poor  weak  mortal  after  all ! 
And  much  we  fear,  that  deep  religious  faith, 
Though    it  had  burned  within  him  ne'er  so 

strong, 

Alone,  lacked  warmth  enough  to  exile  him, 
And  bring  him  over  to  this  wilderness  ! 

Now,  how  it  comes  about,  that,  from  his  brow, 
I  thus  have  ventured,  with  irreverent  hand, 
TO  bear  these  holy  laurels,  worn  so  long, 
Is  shortly  told.     I  found,  by  merest  chance, 
The  simple,  inner  spring,  that  moved  the  man. 

'  Twas  but  this  blustering,  rainy  afternoon, 
When  thought  lagged  slow,  and  books  seemed 

tame  and  dull, 

An  empty,  drowsy,  spring-time  afternoon, 
To  wile  away  the  sluggish,  creeping  hours, 
I    sought    that    dusty    store-room,    with   old 

chests 
And   motley  lumber   choked,  which,  when  a 

child, 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  83 

Had  been  forbidden  ground,  a  mystic  realm  ; 
And,  by  the  few  dull  rays  of  light  that  came 
Reluctantly,  as  though  afraid  to  smile, 
In  face  of  such  grave  emblems  of  the  past, 
In  through  the  one  small  window  close-filmed 

o'er 

With  ragged  webs  and  all  the  grime  of  years, 
I  handled  faded  deeds,  and  rambled  through 
The   store  of  printed  sermons,  thumbed  and 

worn, 
That  roused  our  grandsires  in  the  days  gone 

by; 

Glanced  o'er  old  almanacs,  and  read  therein 
The  margin  entries,  in  a  small,  cramped  hand, 
Of  when    a    calf   should    come,    or   crop    was 

down, 

And,  pausing,  moralized  unto  myself, 
In  narrow,   hackneyed^   strain,    of    time   and 

change ; 

Until,  at  last,  from  out  a  brass-bound  chest, 
I  there  unhoused  this  yellow  packet,  creased,, 
Almost  illegible,  that  lies  at  hand 
Upon  the  table  there  !     A  few  torn  leaves 
Of  what  seem  random  notes,  made  long  ago,. 
Stray  fragments  of  a  journal,  and,  besides, 


84  GOODMAN    JOHN. 

Some  six  or  seven  letters,  quite  as  old, 
Was  all  the  ribbon,  loosely  tied,  contained. 
At  first,  in  careless  vein,  I  glanced  them  o'er, 
But  found  anon,  I  had  misjudged  their  worth, 
And  that   I,   here,  had  strangely  brought   to 

light 
The  cause,  why  Goodman  John  left  home  and 

all 

So  many  years  ago.     The  real  cause  ! 
And  dreaming  here,  before  the  paling  fire, 
Fresh  from  the  letters  and  the  journal's  leaves, 
I  have  a  kindlier,  softer  feeling  far 
For  Goodman  John,  now  that  I  know  the  tale, 
The  homely,  simple  story  of  his  heart, 
Than  had  he  been  for  conscience'  sake  alone 
The  stern  old  martyr  I  had  fancied  him  ! 

Plain  inference  supplies  the  missing  links, 
Where'er  the  letters  and  the  journal  fail  ; 
While,  here  and  there,  a  fancy  is  wrought  in 
To  help  the  continuity,  built  on 
What  must  have  been ;   and  thus,  with  this 

premised, 
Doth  run  the  tale. 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  85 

Our  scene  is  'midst  green  fields, 
And  'neath   an    English    sky.      On   yon   fair 

knoll, 
Rich,  like  the  fields  around,   with    new-born 

green, 
The  farm-house  stands,  deep  shaded  here  and 

there, 

By  crisp-leaved  ivy  vines.     A  time-worn  pile, 
With  many  gables.       Thence  a  sunny  view 
Spreads    out,    of    grass    land    sloping    to    the 

stream 
Which,  close  hemmed  in,  runs  deep  and  still 

and  dark,  — 
A  rude,  stone  bridge  here  spans  its   sluggish 

tide,  — 

And,  rippling,  breaks  anon  o'er  sandy  shoals, 
And  widens  out  between  low  meadow  banks. 
A  mile  away,  the  little  hamlet  lies, 
Remote,  a  busy  world  though  to  itself, 
O'er  which,  with  even,  undisputed  sway, 
The  good  squire  reigns,  who  holds  his  court 

within 

The  rambling  mansion  on  the  hill  hard  by. 
Fair  hawthorn  hedges  skirt  the  rutted  road, 
That    toward  the    village   winds   its    sinuous 

length, 


86  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

From  where  the  farm-house  stands  we  saw  but 

now. 

And,  there,  within  a  roomy  rustic  porch, 
That  proffers  shelter  to  each  passer  by, 
As  foretaste  of  the  welcome  found  within, 
Upon  the  settle  sits  a  white-haired  man, 
And  opposite,  our  hero,  Goodman  John, 
Untitled  then,  and  sitting  there  plain  John  ! 
The  rose-vines  love  the  sheltered,  homely  spot, 
And,  in  a  tangled  net-work,  cluster  o'er 
The  unhewn  side-posts,  and  the  straw-  thatched 


And  now,  fresh  budding,  perfume  all  around  ! 
A   handsome,    stalwart,    light-haired   man   is 

John, 
More  boy  than  man,  though  twenty  years  and 

more 

Have  closely  tnit  his  frame  and  rounded  him, 
Yet  left  a  fresh-toned  heart,  untaught  in  guile  ; 
Not  guileless  from  sheer  incapacity 
And  needed  strength  for  wrong  !  Right  pleased 

him  best, 

And  so  his  life  was  open,  pure,  and  true, 
And  this  true  life  he  lived  with  all  his  strength. 
Had  he   toward  evil  bent,  his  strength  had 

been 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  87 

Expended    there  ;   'twas    temperament    with 

him  ! 

Unlike  most  worthy  workers,  he  could  dream, 
And  sagely  fancy  he  philosophized,  — 
Yet  work  as  well  as  any  of  the  rest 
In  field  or  elsewhere.     Dearly  he  loved  books, 
And  had,   from  childhood  ;  yet  he  read   but 

few, 
But  those  few  o'er  and  o'er,  and  knew  them 

well, 

And  pondered  what  he  read.     A  clever  lad 
The  curate  rated  him,  and  made  him  free 
With  all  the  books  he  had,  a  slender  store  ; 
And  so  John  grew,  at  twenty,  to  be  held 
A  prodigy,  by  those  who  did  not  read, 
And,  by  himself,  less  learned  than  when  first 
He  conned  a  line.     A  sign  he  studied  well 
And  to  some  end. 

The  elder  has  the  mien 

And  same  strong  features,  though  deep  over- 
lined 

With  age,  of  him  who  sits  beside  him  there. 
One  sees  our  hero,  when  he  too  grows  old. 
The  day's  work  o'er,  they  gossip  of  the  farm, 


88  GOODMAN  JOHN. 

Until  the  younger  rises  to  his  feet. 

Then  speaks  the  father,  "  Where  art  going, 

John  ? 

To  court  the  master's  lass,  I  warrant  me  ;  — 
Art  weary,  lad,  so  hold  at  home  to-night. 
The   girl  will   keep   till   morrow   e'en   comes 

round, 
And   greet   thee   warmer,   that   thou    lagg'st 

awhile. 

Thou  art  a  foolish  one,  to  tag  her  thus  ; 
She  has  a  pretty  face,  I  grant  thee  that, 
Yet  all  thy  learning  comes  to  little  good, 
To  bid  thee  '  Like  a  face  and  lose  a  farm  ! ' 
A  musty  proverb,  lad,  yet  one  for  thee  ! 
Thou  know'st  well,  John,  that  I'll  not  cross  thy 

choice, 

I  love  thee  over-well  ;  but  bide  awhile, 
And  look   around  thee,    lad,    and   know   thy 

mind  ! 

If  mother  wert  alive,  she'd  say  the  same, 
And  she  knew  men  and  women  through  and 

through. 
4  She  's  not  the  wife  for  thee,  John,'  she  would 

say, 
I'm  weak,  and  bid  thee  only  bide  awhile  !  " 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  89 

"  Thou'lt  know  Ruth   better,  father,  by  and 

by!" 

Says  John,  replying,  troubled  at  the  words 
His  father  speaks  :  "  'Tis  not  her  face  alone 
That  holds  me,  father ;  'tis  her  heart  as  well, 
Her    soul's    fresh    fount,    her    life's    unsullied 

spring  ! 

There  's  more,  by  far,  in  reading  such  a  heart, 
Of  wisdom  gained,  than  from  a  thousand  books. 
'Tis  all  the  one  I've  lately  read,  and  yet 
I've  learned  to  know  its  beauties  but  in  part ! 
My  head  and   hands  can   earn   the  bread  for 

two, 

And,  as  to  wealth,  what  says  philosophy  ? 
It  enervates  the  man,  and  cramps  the  heart ; 
The  goal  of  knaves;  the  only  pride  of  fools  !  " 

"  Ah,  John !  take  thy  philosophy  to  fools  ! 
It  is  their  boasted  guide,  and  dear  support ! 
I  know  not  what  thy  books  may  teach  thee, 

John, 

I  have  but  little  learning  from  that  source, 
But  some  small  store  of  sterling  steady  sense 
I  have,  and  that  alone  doth  teach  me  this, 
That  thy  so-called  philosophy  should  be 


90  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

A  code  of  fixed  truth  unalterable ; 

It  is  the  creature  of  each  dreamer's  whim  ! 

And  changes  as  the  wind  !     Each  man  doth 

hold 

Some  doctrine  made  to  fit  his  circumstance  ! 
To-day,  the  ragged  pauper  rails  'gainst  gold, 
But  then,  to-morrow,  note  his  change  of  key, 
When  some  stray  pounds,  by  chance,  fall  in 

his  way  ! 

A  noble  ally  hast  thou,  John,  to  help 
Thee  jeer  at  wealth,  in  thy  philosophy ! 
Thou  art  young,  lad,  in  years,  though  old  in 

books  ; 
And  that  doth  bid  me  hope  thy  mood  will 

change. 

Thou'lt  ever  find  a  home  here  on  the  farm 
For  thee,  and  her  thou  bring'st  here  as  thy 

wife, 

But  let  thy  choice  be  wise,  and  weigh  it  well. 
I'll  stay  thee  now  no  longer.     Go  thy  ways  !  " 
And  now  the  father  rises  in  his  turn, 
And  on  the  threshold  bids  his  son  good  night. 

So  busy  press  his  crowding  thoughts,  at  first, 
In  troubled  flow,  at  what  his  father  says, 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  91 

And  then,  forgetting  this,  on  dreams  of  Ruth, 
That  John,  unheeding  all  the  scene  around, 
Doth  start  surprised,  with  scarce  a  moment 

gone, 

To  find  himself  within  the  village  street. 
Boy-like,  he  slackens  now  his  conscious  steps, 
Lest  to  the  evening  loungers  at  each  door, 
His  haste  betray  the  secret  of  his  heart, 
And  gives  each  pleasant  greeting  back  again. 
And  once,  with  some  who  gossip  by  the  road, 
Doth  force  himself  to  stay,  and  careless  talk, 
In  idle  strain,  of  needed  rain,  and  grass, 
To  show  them  all  his  thoughts  are  far  from 

love  ; 

And  shortly,  this  dull,  foolish  role  performed, 
Bears  on  again,  and  nears  the  garden  gate, 
That  bars  a  pretty  cottage  from  the  road. 
And  there,  beside  her  father,  sits  his  Ruth ! 
Her  eyes  are  turned  towards  him  up  the  road, 
But,  as  they  meet  his  own,  shy  droop  again, 
As  though  she   had,   but   absent,   glanced  at 

him, 

And  seen  him  not.     Yet  when,  at  John's  ap 
proach, 
Her  father  rises,  and  with  welcome  smile 


92  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

And  open  hand,  doth  bid  him  enter  in, 
And  sit  with  them,  she  feigns  a  coy  surprise 
To  see  him  there,  —  a  spice  of  coquetry 
Hath  Ruth,  —  and  barely  rising,  as  he  turns, 
Just  yields  her  glowing  finger-tips  to  his. 
She  sees  him  hurt  at  this,  and,  quick  as  thought, 
So  sweetly  smiles  on  him  with  lips  and  eyes, 
That  foolish  John  forgets  all  else  at  once, 
And  stands  enraptured  ! 

Now  to  picture  her  ! 
Her  figure  that  of  budding  womanhood, 
Of  middle  height,  with  carriage  straight  and 

free, 

An  oval  face,  o'erbowed  with  sunny  hair, 
And  so,  of  course,  blue  eyes,  large,  laughing 

eyes, 
That  were   not   deep,   and   never   seemed   to 

dream  ! 

A  nose  and  mouth,  well  suited  to  the  rest, 
The  first,  short,  velvet  moulded,  finely  cut, 
A  trifle  upward  shaded,  and  the  last 
Both  small  and  full,  an  easy  sweetness  wore 
It  was  a  face  that  altogether  charmed,  . 
Yet  did  not  satisfy  ;  a  scentless  flower  ! 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  93 

She  ever  minded  well  her  household  cares, 
She  loved  her  father,  and,  in  different  tone, 
Though  in  no  less  degree,  our  hero  John, 
And    then,    besides,    she    loved    her   father's 

friends, 

And  such  girl  friends  as  she  herself  possessed, 
She  could  not  like,  she  needs  must  love  them 

all, 

Although  another's  liking  might  excel 
Her    love  in   strength  ;  and   all  loved  her  in 

turn, — 
Her    girl   friends,   and   her    father,    and    our 

John. 

John  sits  upon  the  door-stone,  by  the  rest, 
And,  soon,  with  eyes   fixed   all  the    time    on 

Ruth, 

Her  own  cast  down,  she  trifling  with  a  flower, 
Hears  the  old  schoolmaster  talk  on  and  on, 
In  light  discourse,  although  in  earnest  strain. 
In  John's  keen  interest  in  what  he  says,  — 
He    notes    this    from   the    silence    that    John 

keeps,  — 

He  takes  delight ;  '  tis  seldom  that  he  finds 
So  eager-eared  an  auditor  as  John, 


94  GOODMAN  JOHN 

And  he  had  rambled  on  another  hour, 
Pleased  with  himself,  and  thinking  that  his 

friend 

Was  pleased  as  well, — in  soothing  monotone,  — 
Had  not  a  neighbor  tarried  at  the  gate,  — 
A  talker  too,  a  tireless  man  of  words,  — 
And  John,  relieved,  his  fetters  thus  unloosed, 
Proposes,  now,  ere  yet  the  sun  doth  sink, 
A  walk  to  Ruth,  to  where  the  river  runs. 

She,  blushing,  smiles  assent,  and  both  slip  out, 
Unnoticed  now,  so  busy  runs  the  talk, 
And  from  the  road  bear  off  and  enter  on 
A  grassy,  rutted  lane,  that  runs  between 
High  banks  of  fragrant  bloom,  that  now  bar 

off 

The  world  ;  and  now  through  tangled  frame 
work,  show 

A  glimpse  of  distant  mellow-lighted  hills, 
Mist-capped,  o'er  some  long  sweep  of  waving 
field. 

Each  knows  the  other's  love,  and  words  seem 

vain 
To  touch  so  great  a  theme,  so  on  they  pass, 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  95 

Urispeaking,  save  to  note  some  little  bird, 
That  from  the  hedgerow,  startled,  flies  athwart 
Their  path,  —  the  good-night  whisper  of  the 

elms, 

Or  mark  some  daisy,  fairer  than  the  rest ; 
And,  thus  the  river  reached,  high  on  the  bank 
They  sit,  and  watch  its  sluggish  current  flow, 
And  idly  drift  their  fancies  on  the  tide. 

"  See,  Ruth,  how  clear  and  fairly  tinged  the 

sky 
Bends  o'er  the  western  hills.     The  mass   of 

cloud, 

Chameleon  tinted,  on  the  clear  sky's  edge 
Hangs  motionless,  it  seems,  and  all  the  more 
Brings  out  its  radiant  coloring  pure  and  deep. 
The  westward  is  the  future  of  each  sun, 
And  may  ours  prove  as  spotless  and  as  fair 
As  yonder  crystal  stretch  of  western  sky  ! 
We'll  take  it  for  an  augury,  dear  Ruth, 
Of  what  our  life  will  be  in  years  to  come, 
And  watch  until  the  last  tint  faints  and  dies  !  " 

Ruth  smiles  at  this,  but  closer  draws  to  John, 
This  dreaming  John  of  hers,  whose  dreams  she 
loves 


96  GOODMAN  JOHN. 

As  part  of  him,  yet  scarce  can  understand  ; 
And,  hand    in    hand,   they  turn    towards  the 

west, 
To  wait  the  promise  of  their  life  to  be. 

They  note  no  change,  until  a  fainting  breath 
Bestirs  the  heavy,  heated  air,  then  dies, 
Yet,  in  a  moment,  stronger  moves  again, 
To  stir  the  grass,  and  fret  the  river's  flow. 
And,  suddenly,  o'er  all  the  tranquil  west, 
The  feathery  clouds,  that  until  now  hung  high, 
And  far  aloof,  deep  sink  with  inky  bulk 
To  blot  the  sky  and  crush  the  dying  day. 

Then   Ruth   looks  up   with   troubled   eyes   at 

John, 

And  he,  quite  grave  at  first,  assumes  a  smile, 
"  Ah  Ruth !  we  are  rebuked,  and  justly  too, 
For  doubting  what  was  all  too  well  assured ! 
Our  future  rests  not  on  a  shifting  cloud, 
But  on  a  love  enduring  to  the  end. 
It  needs  no  idle  forecasting  to  say 
Our  love  will  last,  and  while  that  only  lives, 
Each  day  must  needs  seem  brighter  than  the 

last. 


GOODMAN    JOHN.  97 

Then   both    arise,   warned    by   the   gathering 

gloom 
And     rising   wind,    and    silent    turn    toward 

home. 

Yet  all  despite  their  haste,  ere  once  again 
They  reach  the  village  road,  the  frowning  sky 
Grows  blacker  yet  with  heavy  banks  of  cloud. 
An  instant's  lull,   in  which   the  storm  takes 

breath, — 
And   then   it    sweeps   upon    them   with    full 

strength, 

Just  ere  the  open  cottage  gate  is  reached  ; 
And  with  its  strong  arms  seizes  on  the  elms, 
And  holds  their  branches,  straining  to  be  free, 
And  beats  the  dust-cloud  down  itself  has  raised. 

They  hasten  to  the  shelter  of  the  porch  ; 
Just  noting,  as  they  run,  a  well-groomed  steed, 
Hitched  to  the  little  paling  by  the  road. 
While,  ere  they  enter  at  the  door,  appears 
The  schoolmaster,  and,  standing  just  behind, 
A  younger  figure,  seeming  strange  to  both, 
A    face,    imbued   with    power,    all    weather- 
bronzed, 
7 


98  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

With   unlined    forehead,    rounded,  high    not 

broad, 
O'er  which  grew  black  and  lustrous    curling 

hair. 
The  face  seems  strange,  yet  something   in  the 

eyes, 
Dark  browed  and  gray,  a  vague  remembrance 

brings 

Of  one  long  since  familiar  to  them  both. 
"  I  beg  ye,  Harry,  till  the  shower  be  o'er 
To  tarry  here  !     Ah  !  John  and  Ruth  at  last !  " 
Thus  speaks  Ruth's  father  :  "  Step  inside  the 

door. 

My  daughter  Ruth,  of  whom  I  spoke  but  now, 
And  this  is  John.    Ye  went  to  school  with  him, 
When  both  were  boys ;  and  not  so  long  ago  ! 
And,  Ruth  and  John,  this  is  Squire  Headford's 

son, 

Ye'll  be  as  soaked  as  they,  man,  if  ye  go  ! " 
Then  full  his  eyes  young  Headford  casts  on 

Ruth, 
And,  looking,  yields  no  loth  assent  to  stay. 

All  enter  then  a  simply  furnished  room, 
With  fireplace  broad  and  deep,  through  which 
the  wind 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  91) 

Now  sadly  moans,  complaining  of  the  storm  ; 
And,  to  repair  the  damage  of  the  rain, 
Ruth,  now  retiring,  leaves  them  for  a  time. 

Young  Headford  talked  with  ease,  and  spoke 

of  scenes 

Of  which  John  liked  to  hear.     Of  Oxford  life, 
For  he  was  fresh  from  academic  shades. 
And  so  discoursed  of  matters  and  of  men, 
And  sagely  generalized,  that  honest  John 
Much  marveled  at  such  wide  experience 
In  hand  with  such  few  years,  and,  wond'ring, 

sighed 

To  find  his  own  life  had  so  cramped  a  scope. 
The  man  had  tact,  and  John  was  overpleased 
To  find  his  reading  was  not  wondered  at, 
As  was  its  wont,  but  taken  as  of  course, 
And  that  his  new  found  friend  could  talk  with 

him, 

And  not  stare  open  mouthed  to  find  he  knew 
The  books  that  farmers  rarely  cared  to  read. 
His  tone  was  cordial,  nay,  e'en  over  so, 
His  warmth,  indeed,  seemed  almost  forced  at 

times, 

And  more  bespoke  an  effort  of  the  brain, 
Than  sympathetic  impulse  of  the  heart ! 


100  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

We  needs  must  know,  or  fancy  that  we  know, 
The  heart  within,  to  build  up  love  or  like  ; 
And  often  knowledge  and  a  love  are  one. 
So  John,  who  felt  he  had  not  compassed  yet, 
The  mould  or  secret  of  young  Headford's  self, 
Disliked  the  man,  though  he  could  scarce   say 

why. 

And  when,  soon  after,  Ruth  came  flutt'ring  in, 
Fresh  clad  in  white,  of  stuff  of  tissue  web, 
With  just  a  knot  of  ribbon  in  her  hair, 
Her   cheeks    still   glowing   from    the   hurried 

walk, 
He  caught  the   glance   young  Headford  cast 

on  her  ; 

Of  admiration  was  it  ?     Yes,  and  more,  — 
A  look  that  bade'Ruth  flush  and  droop  her  eyes, 
A  bare  dislike  quick  took  a  warmer  hue, 
That  scarce  could  be  concealed.     And  when, 

at  last, 

The  sky  gave  hope  of  clearing,  and  the  rain 
Fell  thin  and  wearily,  young  Headford  rose, 
And,  mounting,  waved  good  e'en,  and  rode 

away : 
Nor  tarried  John,  but,  troubled,  turned  toward 

home. 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  101 

The    slow   days   passed,    with    never-varying 

round 

Of  homely  cares  ;  and  though,  each  eventide, 
John  walked  with  Ruth,  he  never  spoke  one 

word 
That  touched  young   Headford,    "  She'll  not 

see  the  man, 
Mayhap,    for   years   again  ;  "    thus   reasoned 

John, 

%t  It  would  but  vex  her  if  I  spoke  my  thought, 
And   nothing   gained  !      I'll   e'en   forget   the 

whole." 

And,  kindly,  nought  was  said,  in  turn,  by  Ruth, 
Of  that  strange  chance,  which,  every  morn,  had 

brought 

Young  Headford  riding  past  her  cottage  door, 
At  just  the  hour  when,  household  cares  com 
plete, 
She   plied   her   wheel    within    the    shadowed 

porch  ! 

And  if  he  tarried  just  to  'change  a  word, 
What   mattered   it    to    John?  —  no  harm  in 

that  ! 
She    needs   must   talk   to    John  of  weightier 

things 


102  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

Than  such  as  these  !  —  He'd  love  her  all  the 
more 

Tf  she  spoke  less  of  trifles  !    Tender  Ruth  ! 

And  it  were  far  more  needless  then  to  say 

The  thing  she  scarce  acknowledged  to  her 
self, 

The  well-pleased,  quicker  pulsing  of  her 
heart, 

When,  up  the  road,  she  heard  his  horse's 
tread, 

Exactly  as  the  'customed  hour  drew  near, 

And  that,  when  only  once  he  failed  to  come, 

The  morning  dragged,  and  something  in  her 
day 

Seemed  lost,  and  that  she  listless  sat  and 
sighed. 

And  so  with  nothing  said,  John  quite  forgot 
Young    Headford  lived,  and   working,  hoped 

and  dreamed, 
And  every    hope    and   dream    had   life   from 

Ruth. 
Thus,  having    cause  to   grieve,  he    still   was 

glad, 
And  held  these  days  the  best  he  yet  had  lived. 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  103 

Each   evening   brought  him  eager  to   Ruth's 

side. 

No  longer  used  she  coquetry  with  John, 
And  had  grown  dearer  to  him,  so  it  seemed  ; 
"  I  need  you,  John  !  "  she  often  said  of  late, 
"  Thou  art   so  brave   and  strong,    and    I    so 

weak  !  " 

And  always  dwelt  upon  the  coming  time 
When  they  should  wed  and  fortune  smile  on 

John! 

And  thus  in  present  calm  and  promised  joy, 
With  nought  to  break  their  sweet  tranquillity, 
Those  long  remembered  happy  days  passed  by. 

This  clear  horizon  could  not  last  for  aye, 
And  shortly,  thus  the  first  faint  clouds  arose  ; 
One  night,  a  jot  behind  the  'customed  hour 
When  Ruth  would  look  for  him,  John  pressed 

along 

With  more  than  wonted  hurry  in  his  steps, 
To  save  the  precious  moments  by  her  side, 
And,  as  he  neared  the  cottage,  from  the  gate 
Toward   him   sauntered   Ruth,    and,    by   her 

side, 
Young  Headford  ! 


104  GOODMAN  JOHN. 

John  half  stopped,  surprised,  while  rose, 
Renewed  tenfold,  the  old  concealed  dislike 
And  vague  distrust  that   bade   him  shun  the 

man  ; 

And  while  he  hesitates  what  part  to  play, 
Ruth  sees  him,  and  with  ready  tact  descries 
His   grave,   unwonted  mien,   and   knows  the 

cause. 
44  We  came  to  meet  you  on  the  way  !  "    she 

says, 
And  smiles.     Young  Headford  takes  his  hand 

perforce, 

In  greeting  cordial,  and  as  though  he'd  found 
The  friend  he  valued  most,  but  John  is  stirred 
Too  deeply  far  to  be  thus  easy  won, 
And  coldly  gives  his  greeting  back  again, 
Nor  answers  to  Ruth's  smiles,  and  when  the 

gate 

Is  reached,  young  Headford  frames  a  bald  ex 
cuse 
Of  pressing  cares  at  home,  and  turns  away. 

Both  John  and  Ruth  stand  silently  awhile, 
For  each  feels  wounded  at  the  other's  part, 
Yet  would  not  venture,  on  the  moment's  spur, 
To  speak  their  thought. 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  105 

At  last  Ruth,  pouting,  says, 
"  Thou  drov'st  our  friend  away  by  frowning  so  ; 
What  ails  thee,  John,  to-night,  thou  art  not 

wont 
To  take  this  surly  mood  !  " 

And  John  replies, 
"  The  man  's  no  friend  of  mine,  nor  should  be 

thine ; 

Thou  hast  no  call  or  right  to  walk  with  him  : 
I  like  him  not,  he  's  naught  to  thee  or  me  !  " 

"  Ah  John  !  he  is  a  willing  friend  of  thine, 
And  shows  it  thus.     He  heard  my  father  say 
Thou  wert  a  scholar,  and  would  fain  be  freed 
From  rustic  cares,  to  closer  con  thy  books; 
And  straightway,  then,  he  offers  to  secure 
Thy  earnest  wish,  and  money  gained  to  boot ! 
He  has  a  friend,  some  twenty  miles  away, 
Who'll  take  thee  for  a  master  to  his  son, 
Where  thou 'It  have  books,  and  time  to  read 

them  too  ! 

He  would  not  bid  thee  hope,  until  'twas  done, 
But   now,   the    thing   complete,   to    save   thy 

thanks, 


106  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

He  bade  my  father  tell  it  thee  to-night ; 

So  blush,  John,  at  thyself,  and  come  within !  ' 

"  Mayhap,  I  sorely  have  misjudged  the  man  ; 
This  kindly  act  disarms  me  quite,"  says  John, 
"  And  if  I've  wronged  him  in  my  thought  or 

deed, 
I'll  make  amends  !  " 

"  That  sounds  like  John  again  !  " 
Says    Ruth,   and,  smiling,  takes   him  by  the 
hand. 

Thus  came  it  round,  that  ere  another  month 
Came  rustling  in,  and  mellow  Autumn  dawned, 
Jong,  left  his  home,  and  had  e'en  now  grown 

old 
In  hackneyed  ways,  o'er  which  to  guide   his 

charge, 
Toward  the  cloud-veiled  spring !     Dull  paths 

they  were, 
Thick   strewn   with   bare-boned   elements    of 

things, 

That  gave  poor  promise  of  the  fields  beyond ! 
But  John  toiled  on,  and  when  his  tasks  were 

o'er, 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  107 

Found  sweet  relief  in  converse  with  the  books 
He  knew  and  loved  the   best,  or  else  would 

dream 
Of  that  bright  goal  that  seemed  so  near  him 

now, 

And  from  the  petty  stipend  that  he  earned, 
Built  glowing  possibilities  for  Ruth  ! 
His  slender  store  of  pounds  grew  infinite, 
When  fingered  by  his  wishes  or  his  love  ! 
And  busied  thus,  the  days  sped  lightly  by. 

Each  week  a  love-fraught   letter  came  from 

Ruth, 
Brought   by  some  traveller  who  should  chance 

that  way  ; 
And  always  grimed  and  crumpled  though  it 

•was, 

From  o'er  close  keeping  in  the  bearer's  hand, 
John  pressed  the  missive  often  to  his  lips, 
And  read  the  simple,  loving  words  thrice  o'er. 

And  yet  he  took  these  letters,  as  of  course, 
Nor  knew  how  much  they  really  were  to  him, 
Until  when  once  a  whole  week  dragged  away, 
And  no  word  came  !    The  hours  hung  heavily, 


108  GOODMAN  JOHN. 

And  when  he  tried  to  fix  upon  his  books, 
He  scanned  the  page,  but  only  read  of  Ruth. 
Thus  when  another  week  had  almost  passed, 
And  brought  no  news  to  him  of  her  he  loved, 
He  framed  excuse  for  absence  for  a  day ; 
And  ere  the  golden  foreglow  of  the  sun 
Woke  o'er  the  eastern  hills,  John  sought  the 

road, 
And  turned  his  steps  toward   Ruth  and  home 

once  more. 

Nor  tarries  he  upon  the  way  for  rest ; 
But  when  the  hamlet  once  again  is  reached, 
He  seeks  Ruth's  cottage,  and  doth  anxious  wait 
Upon  the  door-stone,  his  first  halting  place, 
Until  the  door  is  opened  wide  at  last ;  — 
And  then  Ruth's  father,  answering  his  face, 
Ere  yet  his  lips  can  frame  a  word,  doth  say 
That  Ruth  had  wandered  off  an  hour  before, 
Yet  would  return  ere  long. 

"  And  she  is  well?" 
He  anxious  asks : 

44  She  seems  to  miss  thee,  John. 
I've  often  seen  her  tears  fall  fast  of  late, 


GOODMAN  JOHN.  109 

And  silently,  when  she  has  thought  none  by  ; 
She  's  not  the  same  she  was  when  thou  wert 

here." 
Then    John,    with    few   words    more,    turns 

toward  the   farm 
With  promise  to  return  ! 

At  eventide, 

When  once  again  he  gained  the  cottage  door, 
Ruth  welcomed  him,  with  trembling  hand,  and 

smile 

Wherein  a  tinge  of  unsaid  sorrow  lay, 
And  drew  his  chair  toward  the  glowing  fire, 
For  now  the  nights  came  clear  and  frostily. 

The  master  gossiped  at  the  village  inn, 
And  Ruth  and  John  sat  hand  in  hand  alone. 

"  Ah,  Ruth!  thou  hast  forgotten  me  of  late  ! 
No  letter  came  ;  I  feared,  yet  knew  not  what ; 
And  this  it  is  that  brings  me  here  to  thee." 

"  I  tried,  dear  John,  but  had  no  heart  to  write  ! 
Thou  know'st  my  love,  and  why  then  wouldst 
thou  seek 


110  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

To  have  me  tire  thee  with  o'erfrequent  words 
On  what  is  known  so  well,  and  held  so  dear  !  " 
And  here  Ruth  drops  her  eyes   at  John's  re 
gard, 
And  vainly  strives  to  check  the  deep-dragged 

sigh 
That  memory  wrested  from  her  weary  heart ! 

"  'Tis  not  like  thee,  to  speak  thus  idly,  Ruth  ! 
Thy  least  fond  word  is  something  ever  dear, 
And  brighter  and  still  dearer  it  becomes 
In  hallowed  repetition  from  thy  lips.  — 
We  must  no  longer  live  apart,  dear  Ruth, 
Our  lives  are  now  so  closely  interknit 
In  love  and  purpose,  that  they  faint  apart, 
And  crave  the  holy  contact  of  the  soul, 
The  inner,  vital  essence  of  all  love ! 
We'll  wed  anon,  and  live  upon  the  farm, 
And  I'll  no  longer  strive  for  gain  from  books, 
A  barren  mine  for  wealth,  it  seems,  at  best, 
And  here  I  throw  that  old  ambition  off. 
Another  month  and  we'll  be  man  and  wife !  " 
And    John    drew    Ruth    toward    him    as   he 

spoke, 

While  she  hid  deep  her  face  upon  his  breast, 
And  wept  there  silently,  and  clung  to  him  ! 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  Ill 

But  when  he  sought  to  soothe  her  and  to  find 

The  undisclosed  reason  of  her  grief, 

She  answered  nought,  but    drew   away  from 

him, 
And  vainly  tried,   through    tears,  to  force  a 

smile, 
And  sought  to  draw  his  mind  to  other  themes." 

John  rose  at  last,  heart-heavy  thus  to  find 
Ruth's  soft  eyes  tear-dimmed,  and  not  know 

the  cause, 

And  she  held  close  to  him,  as  loth  to  part ; 
And  on  the  threshold,  fixing  on  his  face, 
A  look  of  love  and  troubled  doubt  and  fear, 
Made  effort  once,  as  though  she  fain  would 

speak 
Some    hidden,   inner   thought,  but    no  words 

came, 
Then  bowed  her  head,  and  sighed  so  wearily  ! 

"  Good-night,  dear  John  !    When  next  ye  see 

my  face, 
'Twill   bear   no    grief    to    fret   ye    with  ;    no 

tears !  " 
And  when  John  gained  the  road,  and  turned 

toward  home  — 


112  GOODMAN  JOHN. 

All  grave,  and  with  a  strange,  dull  sense  of  loss 
And  loneliness  within  his  troubled  heart,  — 
He  turned  to  see  Ruth,  still  within  the  door. 
The  moonlight  fell  upon  her  upturned  face, 
Where   dawning   marks  of   pain  were  dimly 

lined, 
While    heavenward    her    tearful    eyes    were 

cast !  — 
John  took  that  moonlit  picture  to  his  grave ! 

Again   he   sought    his  books,    and  strove    to 

find 

Forge tfulness  in  round  of  wearying  cares  ; 
For  now  no  longer  came  those  fancies  fair 
Whene'er  he  thought  of  Ruth,  but,  in  their 

stead, 

Grotesque  and  gloomy  pictures  filled  his  brain  ; 
Yet  all  in  vain,  he  could  not  master  thought ! 
And  ever  came  a  pale  and  sorrowing  face, 
With   tear-dimmed   eyes    before    him   as   he 

read  ; 
And   every   thought   was   tinged   with    some 

dread  gloom  ; 
And  ever  turned   each  dawning   thought   to 

her ! 


GOODMAN  JOHN.  113 

Thus  each  dull  day  dragged  heavier  than  the 

last, 

Until  one  leaden  morning,  when  the  wind 
Moaned  low  and  drearily  from  slaty  clouds, 
And  breathed  a  vague  unrest  through  all  his 

soul, 

He  left  his  tasks,  and  sought  his  patron  out, 
And  told  him  of  his  wish  to  turn  towards  home, 
And  meeting  every  urgent  ground  to  stay, 
With  but  the  simple  answer,  "  I  must  go  !  " 
He  took  his  pack,  and  sought  the  frosty  road  ! 

'Twas  late  before  he  got  upon  his  way, 
And  thus  the  short,  drear  day  was  nearly  spent, 
When,  in  the  valley  just  before  him,  showed 
The  little  hamlet  on  the  river  side. 
The  low  clouds  darkly  hung  o'er  all  around, 
And  all  seemed  gray  and  dead  and  desolate, 
And  brought  no  'customed,  joyous  thought  to 
him. 

The  village  street  seemed  empty  as  he  passed  ; 
No  loungers  gathered  at  the  garden  gates  ; 
The  busy  forge,  where  constant  labor  plied,, 
Gave  out  no  ring  of  echoing  hammer-stroke  ; 


114  GOODMAN  JOHN. 

And  from  the  inn,  no  single  sound  was  heard, 
Whence  ever,  as  he  passed,  was  wont  to  come 
A  cheerful  undertone  that  spoke  content 
And  drowsy  comfort  of  the  guests  within  ! 
A  deathly  blight  seemed  fallen  on  the  place ! 

But  now  the  jar  of  slowly  moving  wheels, 

Not  far  away,  struck  on  his  ready  ear  ; 

And   shortly,   from  the  hedge-fringed,  grassy 

lane, 

Wherein  so  often  he  had  walked  with  Ruth, 
Upon  the  highroad  toward  him  slowly  came 
A  creaking  wagon  and  a  noiseless  crowd  ; 
A  hush  hung  over  all,  and  every  face 
A  startled  look  of  some  great  trouble  bore ! 

And  while  John  stood,  deep  wondering  at  the 

scene, 
Some   saw   him    there   and   knew  him    at    a 

glance  ; 

At  which  a  buzzing  murmur  rose  and  grew. 
The  wagon  stopped,  and  then  the  close-drawn 

crowd, 

About  it  intermingled,  came  and  went 
Like  busy  ants  !  —  But  just  a  moment  thus, 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  115 

And  then,  the  earnest  consultation  o'er, 
The   rude   wheels  turned,  and  all   moved   on 
again. 

John  nears  the  crowd,  yet  halts  again  to  find 

That  old  familiar  faces  turn  from  him ; 

And  that  each  eye  is  dropped  at  meeting  his, 

Nor  can  he  muster  words  to  find  the  cause 

That  brings  together  all  this  pallid  train  ! 

He  stands  bewildered,  wondering  if  he  dreams, 

Until  one,  braver,  and  from  that  more  keen 

Than  all  the  rest  in  sensibility, 

A  rough   man,  too,  from    outward   mould    he 

seemed, 

Draws  close  to  John  and  lays  upon  his  arm 
A  spreading,  horny  hand,  not  roughly  though, 
But  gently  as  a  mother's  touch  is  made, 
And  slowly,  pityingly,  thus  speaks  at  last : 
"  Thou  art  a  true  man,  John,  and  brave  I  wot, 
But  thou  hast  need  of  all  thy  strength  of  heart ; 
There  's  bad  news  for  thee,  man  !    Aye,  bitter 

news ! 

It  touches  all,  but  strikes  thee  harder  yet  ! 
'Tis  hard  to  speak  it,  John,  a  sorry  task  ! 
Thy  sweetheart,  John  !    Thou  know'st  what  I 

would  say  ! 


116  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

We  found  her  body  by  the  river  bank ! 
One    moment    yet,   man  !    Brace  thyself  and 
look  !  " 

John  speaks  not  ;  and  doth  hold  the  speak 
er's  face 

With  eyes  whence  all  the  light  and  soul  has 
fled; 

And  then,  while  o'er  his  frame  a  tremor 
passed, 

Drew  toward  the  wagon,  through  the  open 
ing  crowd, 

With  heavy  step,  and  scanned,  with  haggard 
eyes, 

The  burden  there  :  his  Ruth,  with  upturned 
face, 

From  which  each  trace  of  pain  and  sorrow's 
lines 

The  hand  of  restful  Death  had  lightly 
smoothed. 

Beneath  her  head  some  tender  hand  had  laid 

A  jerkin  rough,  and,  seeming  as  in  sleep 

One  arm  lay  lightly  bended  o'er  her  face, 

And  wet  and  matted  lay  her  silken  hair, 

Decked  here  and  there  with  sprays  of  river 
weed. 


GOODMAN  JOHN.  117 

John  coldly  looked,  and  gave  no  single  sign, 

By  word  or  passing  shadow  of  the  face, 

Of  all  the  sore,  dull  sense   that  numbed   his 

heart,  — 

His  sorrow  lay  within,  too  deep  and  dark ! 
But  when  at  last  before  the  cottage  gate 
The  wagon  stopped,  John  checked  each  will 
ing  hand 
That  fain  had  helped  him,  and  with  reverent 

care 

Bore  in  his  arms  alone  the  yielding  form 
Of  her  but  now  he  thought  of  as  a  bride, 
And  laid  her  lightly,  tenderly  within ! 

Then,  as  he  slowly  turns  to  move  apart, 

To  'scape  the  gaze  and  pressure  of  the  crowd 

Which  follow  close,  comes  thrust  into  his  hand 

A  scrap  of  folded  paper,  closely  sealed  ! 

He  looks  and  sees  Ruth's  father  by  his  side  :  — - 

"  It   is    for    thee,  John !    'twas    this    morning 

found 
Within    her   room  ;  "    and    here    he    fails    for 

grief. 

John  breaks  the  seal,  and  reads  with  throb 
bing  brain 


118  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

These  parting  words,  in  Ruth's  strained,  girl 
ish  hand : 

"  Farewell,  my  love  ;  I  dare  not,  cannot  live 
To  meet  thy  trusting,  tender  eyes  again, 
And  know  myself  so  false,  so  darkly  lost, 
And  thee  so  true  !     Ah  !  had  I  heeded,  John, 
Thy  timely   word    that   bade    me   shun   that 

man ! 

Forget  me,  thus  unworthy  of  thy  love  ; 
Or,  if  in  time  thy  memory  should  recall 
Some  clouded  thought  of  me,  deal  gently  then 
In  judgment  of  my  sin,  and  if  thy  heart 
Can  open  to  my  prayer,  forgive  the  one 
Who    once    had    dared    to    call    herself    thy 
Ruth  ! " 

He  reads  the  paper  over  once  again, 

Ere  yet  the  full,  dread  import  of  the  words 

Strikes  to  his  heart !     And,  then,  with  bended 

head, 

Crushed  by  the  truth  the  letter  has  disclosed, 
He  stands  a  moment  motionless,  then  turns 
To  where  the  body  lay,  and  speaks  to  Ruth, 
As  though  she  were  not  dead,  in  husky  tone  : 
"  In  coming  time,  not  now,  I  can  forgive, 


GOODMAN  JOHN.  119 

But  never  all  the  change  nor  years  to  come 

Can  cloud  this  cruel  recollection  out !  " 

And  then  he  passes  from  the  darkened  room ! 

Some  direful  purpose  darkens  on  his  brow, 

As  eagerly  he  presses  up  the  road, 

Nor  heeds  the  biting  of  the  autumn  wind, 

So  hotly  runs  the  current  of  his  heart, 

So  fierce  the  maddened  pulsing  of  his  brain, 

Wherein   doth   dwell   but  one  hard  vengeful 

thought, 
Whose  cruel  lustre  blinds  his  struggling  soul ! 

He  nears  the  sombre  mansion  on  the  hill, 
Wherein  the  Squire  doth  dwell  ;    yet  at  the 

door 

A  moment  pauses,  at  the  whispered  voice 
Just  faintly  heard  within,  that  bids  him  fly 
Ere  execution  follows  on  his  thought ! 
But  then  the  rushing  impulse  of  his  heart 
O'ermasters  all,  and  with  his  clenched  hand 
He  beats  his  echoing  summons  at  the  door. 

Nor  waits  he  long,  for  readily  swings  wide 
On  noiseless  hinge,  the  hospitable  oak, 


120  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

And  he  who  waited  for  his  word  within, 
Starts,  glancing  at  the  stranger's  pallid  face 
And  sunken  eyes,  turned  heavily  afar 
Toward    the    thickening  night.      John    noted 

not,  — 

So  eagerly  his  circling  thoughts  swept  on,  — 
The  open  door,  till  startled  by  the  voice 
That  asked  his  errand  there  I 

'"  Young  master's  gone  "  — 
The    man    says,    answering    his    half-formed 

words  — 
"  To  foreign  lands,  these  two  weeks  since  and 

more  !  " 

Then  John  turns  slowly,  silently  away, 
And    aimless    now,    makes    toward    the   road 

again. 

But  soon  his  limbs  grow  heavy,  and  his  brain 
Is  darkly  filled  with  some  dread  impotence 
That  clouds  out  thought,  till  by  the  hedgerow 

bare 
He  prostrate  sinks   and  yields   up   conscious- 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  121 

For  weeks  John  tossed  upon  the  sunless  sea, 
The  waste,  wide-stretching,  'twixt  the  shadowy 

shores 

Of  life  and  death,  till  slowly  drifted  on, 
By    kindly    currents,    back    to    health     and 

strength  ; 

And  then  they  broke  to  him  with  tender  care, 
The  tearful  story  of  his  father's  death, 
O'erborne  by  all  the  sorrow  of  his  son  ! 

Then,  with  this  last  bond  broken,  all  his  heart 
Turned  heavenward,  to  things  immutable  ; 
And  this  neAV  passion  flooding  all  his  soul, 
He  chafed  beneath  the  narrow,  cramping  yoke 
Of  form  and  close  knit  dogma  of  the  church  ; 
And  hearing  of  a  little  band,  who  held 
What  seemed  a  purer  doctrine  to  his  soul, 
And  sought  asylum  far  beyond  the  seas, 
He  sold  his  all,  and  threw  his  lot  with  theirs  ! 

Within  his  journal's  leaves  of  aftertime, 
Grows  frequent  mention  of  a  pleasant  name, 
A  name  the  daughters  of  our  race  still  wear. 
And,  farther  on,  1  chanced  upon  this  rhyme 
In      Goodman     John's      own     clear-wrought 
rounded   hand  ! 


122  GOODMAN   JOHN. 

AN   APRIL    RHYME. 

I. 

The  clouds  hang  dark  and  low  ; 

The  leafless  trees,  and  dead  brown  earth, 

A  lifeless  prospect  show, 

A  prospect  full  of  woe  ! 

Yet  something  in  the  air  gives  birth 

To  summer  thoughts  of  green, 

A  something  all  unseen, 

A  breath  that  speaks  of  buds  and  bloom, 

And  song  of  birds  in  store  ! 

II. 

We  feel  the  earth  but  feigns 

The  dreary  face  of  shriveled  death, 

And  that  the  hot  blood  strains 

E'en  now  within  her  veins, 

And  that  anon  her  od'rous  breath 

Will  fan  to  life  the  flowers  ! 

She  rests  through  all  these  hours, 

That  when  she  smiles  and  breaks  the  gloom, 

We'll  know  her  worth  the  more  ! 


GOODMAN   JOHN.  123 

III. 

When  hearts  seem  dull  and  cold, 

And  trouble's  blast  doth  chill  the  breast, 

Cease  not  this  thought  to  hold  ; 

And  with  it  rest  consoled. 

Then  hear  that  whisper  blest, 

That  voice  within,  which  says, 

Heed  not  these  troublous  days, 

Nor  let  thy  soul  with  cares  consume  ! 

Thy  summers  are  not  o'er ! " 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


YC   16120 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


